It’s the puzzle that epiphany will never cross,
The justification for our existence,
The certainty that some divine hand weaves a reason for our being,
An intricate web of destiny so perplexing in its design,
That it is not within the reach of our senses,
Without the solidity to see or touch,
It becomes questionable.

A series of events that sweep the dust into the air,
Ruffling the feathers of comfort,
Ignites the question then,
In the backs of intrigued minds the truth sits,
Covered by the stew of pain and guilt,
Though we know that truth, we still search,
Connecting the strands at the wrong ends,
Ignoring that these questions have no answers.

We can categorize these events,
Lick the sticker and label it under circumstance,
File it into a cabinet where the dust will settle again,
Do we really have any other choice?
A thousand generations of detectives have looked before us,
And their answers remain the same as ours.

We will then sleep sound in our beds,
Knowing the finger now points to the divine hand,
But if you were to ask me,
The hand that weaves the web is the one that will get caught in it,
And if we seem to endlessly become caught in that web,
Then the hand must be our own.


 
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