Searching for a purpose is futile
for the mind that loves to meander
and suck the brightest ideas
into the whirlpool of over-thinking
until they are twisted, disfigured mess
that it favours the best.
There’s no rest for the wicked –
On, how I wished it wasn’t true but it is
so it goes and gobbles until the light cease
to shine upon the imposed darkness.
It should unsettle but it doesn’t
the comfort was scarce, thus, no judgement
it is what it is. Let it dwell
and be pleased by the colour of its own choosing
even if it’s pitch black.
The purpose, though, emerges
from unexpected place
with the grace of an angel.
It’s no stranger to the pain and burns,
So, it’s expected for it to be sympathetic
with the unfair struggles.
It fights and it soothes
since there’s nothing to lose
and it prays it could spare a minute of peace for another
before Father decides to spice up their life.