Social Sciences

beyond the walls

AWIn all the halls
and through the walls
my harried thoughts are singing.
I hear them there
and over there
like finches they are winging.

I think of you,
and you and you,
and, oh, the anguish stinging.
For every time
you seem sublime
I only end up wringing.

And so it is,
I’m only his,
the one who me is flinging.
And so I’ll go
where no one knows
and meet you there in clinging.

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“Out beyond ideas of wrong-doing and right-doing, there is a field. I’ll meet you there.” ― Rumi

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Image: Angkor Wat, Cambodia (mine)

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carry on

stormAlone I sit and contemplate
this thing that we call life:
Desires we cannot satiate,
the struggles and the strife.

I wonder why we do it now,
I wonder why we try.
I wonder why we carry on,
why not lay down and die?

I guess there’s hope—
the future, see?
Our dreams, they are
a mystery . . .

But, no.

It’s been all these years:
He’ll not return to me.

(He’s God’s, can’t you see?)

I wonder why I do it now,
I wonder why I cry.
I wonder why I can’t let go,
for him, alone, I’ll die.

Unworthy . . .

(God judge me.)

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He doesn’t mourn for me.

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Image: Pinterest

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Note: I feel badly. This poem is not about death (at least not in the traditional sense), though it could easily be read that way. Please, dear readers, do not mourn for me. I did not mean to mislead you or look for sympathy.

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