Why ?

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.