On answers without questions

A Poem Out of Rhyme
It’s like reading the final page
Of a mystery novel
And trying to figure the story out
It’s like staring into the shards
Of a broken mirror
And trying to put the face together

The jigsaw can never make a picture
For that last missing piece
What’s the use of writing poetry;
Who reads it anyway?

April 2001

Lost
Oh! Where will I go?
I’m too afraid to know
I’m too afraid to ask
Peeping through this mask
That which you call life.

November 2001