Questions, questions,
questions
so many of them
pop up in my heart,
my soul.
Like the rings of sliced onion
that fall off
from the core
Unanswered,'un-understandable,'
Perhaps almost unacceptable:
Of unbalanced suffering
Suffering long and continuing
To the next generations
Some suspect a curse
If so, I wish those involved
Right their wrongs
Or search for remedies,
For wisdom
To tilt the see-saw
Of favour
To their side.
Till then
I will perhaps
Find myself
On a treadmill
That keeps me
From proceeding,
Or progressing
With the confidence
That once was
And should have been mine.
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