Do you tell him?
Do you don’t?

I have no answers.
Just questions for dancers,
The ones dancing around the answers.

How can I respond,
When I can’t even despond…
Clueless of the topic; still not that fond.

So you ask him,
Patiently out-lasting sin…
In a place where consternation and I are kin.

Do you sell him?
Do you don’t?

Raising my hand,
Patiently waiting for my chance
To ask my question and hopefully advance.

Curiosity stifled-
My intuition is recycled.
Left… no answers; in this vicious cycle

What’s the prognosis?
I need some kind of diagnosis!
Take two of these… death by doctoral halitosis.

Sell him or tell him
Whether you do or don’t,
If the PLAGUE don’t kill him
Then anticipation won’t.

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