Doubts

I doubt, so I exist...
From truths wrung dry,
in the cradle of simple longing,
our life is born with grace,
and then it departs in pain.

And perhaps death is a strange dream,
after the knotted puzzle of life comes undone,
most blissfully written heaven and hell,
in words of love or a tightened knot.

And still we have not found the key...
We dwell still in coincidence.
In coincidence, our fates take flight,
and it is no accident that we weep and laugh,
when it wounds us in a human way.

The immortality of spirit terrifies us.
But since you and I are mortal,
in our minutes, we are executioners
of their sufferings---blind,
after every accusation---without sin,
after every repentance---made saints,
after every death---more human still.

Or perhaps life is love,
Or perhaps it is merely a test.
And after life comes life again...
And we desire. And we seek.
But we do not know.