Questions. Sort of a depressing one. It wasn't meant to be that way, but that's what happens when you write poetry right before a physics exam. What, my soul, have we become and What great tasks we've left undone and Why, my mind, do you lie fallow and Why does knowledge seem so shallow? Do you still feel holy rage or Do you curse what's put to page or Can you cry for dreams deferred or Can you fix the flightless bird? When, my love, did you depart and When can I refresh, restart and How can I begin anew and How can I be me, not you? Do you know that I still bleed or Do you care what sights I've seen or Must I live without your grace or Must I die to see your face? What, My God, have I become, Never blessed to see the one, Nevermore to see the sun, My God, My God, what have I done?
