The Death Of Purpose
Life was created to always have purpose;
tho we often, don’t know what it is;
sometimes reasons, lie neath the surface;
defying circumspect analysis.
I’ve reached that curious stage of life;
where my life has lost its meaning;
I live all alone; having lost my wife;
love isn’t satisfied by dreaming.
Yet, life, itself is no more than a dream;
thoughts make illusions of reality;
we speak of life, as a flowing stream;
but, life is a created duality.
Thoughts were created in heaven, above;
sending nightmares, cascading, below;
God is the Lord; in the kingdom of love;
we are prodigals; cast down to grow.
Although all are guilty of insurrection;
and crushed, by the weight of sin;
we pray to the Lord for his protection;
wishing we could start over again.
Though I can see the error of my ways;
and I’ve become deeply sorry;
purpose seems gone; in my final days;
and, I’m, now the devil’s quarry.
All must live, by destiny, for a season;
in death; that season passes on;
purpose, itself, is the voice of reason;
after death; comes a new dawn.
Monty 2.28.26. # 3,196