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.

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