Futility

Why is it that I was born to live;
if I’ve also been born to die?
Just what is it, my life can give;
there must be a reason why.

Why must I suffer growing pains;
or even any pain at all;
who benefits; where are the gains;
why must I rise; to fall?

Will I ascend to insignificance;
without rhyme or reason;
gaining the Master’s indifference;
and, only for a season?

All the people I’ve grown to love;
will they no more be found;
thoughts of us all, floating above;
as remnants rot in the ground.

It’s said all things come to an end;
is life the ultimate futility;
how, can such, the Master defend;
as remains rest in tranquility?

Am I to remain a character in a book;
or an actor on stage in a play;
will my very reality be forsook;
and not even allowed to stay?

Seeking the Master’s sense of Nobility;
I beg, my purpose by Him, defended;
never permitting my life to be futility;
and consciousness never ended.

Monty 9/17/21.