Purpose

This hunk of semi-sentient bone, blood and flesh
Suffused with guilt, drives, love, and regrets
Over a quarter century has still yet to find
A purpose to which it feels naturally inclined

Thus ensues much whining and whinging
Much to the delight of friends who are inwardly cringing
“Oh do shut up you miserable man”
Their lips seem to mouth from behind their hands

But the indulgence fiend needs his fix
It’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair [he insists]
And so on goes the mantra for this pope of mope
Who with the garden-variety never seems to cope

He can never accept the phrase, “That’s life”
Or all the humdrumness of a nine-to-five
There has to be something more worthwhile
Something that will culminate in a satisfied mind

Tall are the ambitions
High are the goals to achieve
So much so that the sweet shelf seems perpetually out of reach
Which results in too much time idly spent looking at the feet

Because to look up into the sky is to realise
What good is a purpose in context with the cosmic playsite
- Where stars crash, burn and collide
- Where suns dwindle, die, and are resurrected to ten times their original size
- Where ice fountains erupt on Enceladus
- And where superior minds perhaps do slowly and surely draw their plans against us

And beyond the power of modern man’s telescopes
This whatever-it-is continues to diminish in significance and scope
The infinite canvas overwhelms our tiny boat
The waves crash down hard and swallow us whole
And with just a playful puff from the almighty gods
This speck of dust here today, could tomorrow be gone
So that all the whining and whinging of this twenty something year old
Amounts to, well ... not very much at all

Perhaps the trivial pursuit of purposefulness
Need not stem from a constant sense of incompetence

So best banish the black cat-o’-nine-tails
And let an effervescent air of positivity prevail
From here on in it’s a strict diet of good vibrations,
Karma-lite and transcendental meditation
Here begins the quest for inner peace
That will cure the heart from Western man’s disease

Still …
a purpose would be nice
and maybe, just maybe,
a rich man’s life