I wish I could write poems about bread
Baking, planting petunias or a crow falling,
Dying in the sky, in mid-flight, but I'm
Troubled by persistent people questions:
What if? I wonder? Why? What else goes
Wrong? How? How did she feel? And then
What happened? What do you mean?
How do you know? Have I asked enough
Questions? The right questions! Have I
Asked about all I experienced at the question's
All these modern magic words, inquires,
Into the immense internal-external worlds
Buried in the black sands of innumerable alphabets
Some on the surface like glittering gems,
Some unreachable garlands in the Bad Lands,
Others buried six feet under like decaying corpses,
Wrapped in untouchable past traditions,
Still more questions -- untapped oil spigots--
To power the entire universe with mania,
Lie and await an awakening,
which shall reshape life
As we knew it and wish for it to be.
(c) November 20, 2007 by Cupideros
Thanks for reading this poem.