Why must life stitch itself in crooked seams and knots,
As if the world prefers riddles over quiet maps?
I walk through rooms where sunlight finds the plots
Of others\' easy mornings, while mine collapses into gaps.
Some cradle first loves like anchors in a storm,
While I count the broken boats that never found a shore.
I speak to heaven as if asking for a form
To hold these scattered pieces, to tell me what for.
Prayers rise like moths against a glass of night,
Flicker, confused, and settle without reply.
Is mercy a door that opens out of sight,
Or a hand that guides while staying hid nearby?
I keep asking God for a reason, any tender sign —
Only the hush returns, and I learn to live with that line.