While I sit here and stare @ these clouds,
I ask myself “will I be drawn into these bosoms of relief soon?”
Am I going paranoid or has death left me with plenty to think about?
Lives that breathe before and past us,
Like a spec of vapour, disappear into thin air,
Are we just here to make up numbers?
Is our purpose really clear?
Questions we ask ourselves each day as we gather in all black,
We are left with no answers but tombstones, and wreaths to lay,
The years of education, hard work and dedication,
What does it all amount to?
What’s the use? If we sweat blood and tears, in readiness unconsciously for our elimination,
The pot of gold,
The pursuit of happiness,
We are on the road to find them,
But if we do or not, what then?
What if none of these exist,
And we as souls are a living fantasy?
What if life itself is a myth?
A whole lot of “what ifs”,
Even men and women born with no fear suddenly become optimists,
For all this suffering we gain,
Trying to attain a higher purpose,
Yet we are slain and our names are spoken with grief and pain,
The concept is senseless,
But can we ever make sense of events,
When our lives are lessened in the hands of the owner who is the same provider of our blessings?
Questions that may never provide concrete answers but will still persist till the very end I guess…