The Meaning of Life

Countless do question, yet none receive,
as to why we shall, how or when perceive,
the soul of this chimera, our shared enigma,
the illusion we breathe, the life we lead.
And have our curtains yet felt the wind?
or high bound hopes, in orchestral string,
found such reason, to share their grief,
or birthed thus forth our eternal brief.
There is no meaning, nor a thought to life,
although are paths with divergence rife.
By the end of days, I do swear by nothing,
that all our lies shall together bring
a word harmonious by all voices woeful,
“if only we knew, that falling was beautiful.”
For all these concepts, like life and death,
of war and peace, of love and breath,
were just one way, our way to acquiescence
of this sojourn fore our sweet evanescence.

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