Fragments So many scattered fragments, silent as they lay. Works yet are unfinished - man still half of clay. My life is full of fragments, new crystals yet to form. Glass that has once shattered, hope will again adorn. --- Why do I act the way I do, as if I saw the conclusion? Have I any real control, Or merely my delusions? I wonder why I do these things - all with a calming certainty? With each emotionless move, I doubt my humanity. --- Do we choose to be different or are we different? The question haunts me nightly. And if I could choose, would I choose to be other? The problem vexes mightily. Why do I always feel outcast and never like others? I wonder if they notice. Only a few friends have I that are close as brothers For others I've no interest. (c)2001 by Robert H. Harrison