by Jesse Wintonyk

I question your God, my heart, and my soul

Existence needs proof, in stories I'm told

But I sit here and cry, lacking gratification

While others have died, solely for their religion

So why do I cry? If I do not believe

What makes me doubt, I can not conceive

Is it power above? Or in my own heart

where these feelings are born, I know not where to start

Is God just a form of societal ethic?

Or is God a true being, to be viewed as angelic

It is nature to question, but with no answers received

I am still hanging, what can I achieve?

In need of assistance, I cry out in vain

I am a lost child, my doubts will retain

But I fear for my death, for what will remain

please help . . . for I fear I am already slain.