Book of questions

Does the night feel mercy as it tears the world asunder?
Does the sea care for the sky and her stars?
For whom are the bellowing chants of raging tempests meant?
Does sleep have drinks with death on Friday nights?
Why do long-gone songbirds recite their blissful cries, knowing they will be forgotten?
Is it preordained if one is to live a life of agony and torment?
Does a bottle of water quiver in fear from my line of sight?
Is a light truly never cold, dim, or alone?
Do dying stars write wills?
How is silk more ghostly in nature than the air itself?
Why, in all the lushness of viridescent vines, do trees of old wither and die?
Did the rabbit walk into the bar?

Most of these questions are left intentionally vague. As you will see soon in my other works, I like my words to have a dream-esque feel to them. These questions are also made to be melancholic, as I think this tone best describes the more serious yet whimsical questions I have sometimes. Also, the last one is a play on a joke I'm sure you've heard of.