Why do flowers bloom when they’re destined to die?
Suppose it’s just for a moment of sunshine and rain,
To wither and die only for the cycle to start again.
Like the songs that birds sing which fall on deaf ears;
Carried in the wind of long-forgotten memories,
Through trees without leaves on mountaintops to barren fields below.
Why do they sing,
When their songs will die?
Why does the sun still cast its light on blue skies?
For it too will go dark as the universe grows old,
To drift in eternal decay along the path where death strolls.
Like flowing rivers to dust turned in old years;
Where dreams lay in sad silence by headstones with no name,
In desolate graveyards and moldy tombs they found far below.
Why do they dream,
When their dreams will die?
Why do they continue to live with this lie?
A foolish belief of purpose and that of self-worth,
That somehow they matter in life as if not dust on this earth.
Like shifting shadows that lurk in deepest fears;
The cold presence of death unseen stands eagerly by,
To claim the lost we are for his domain of the void below.
Why do they live,
When they are destined to die?
Author’s Note:
Why do we live when we are destined to die?
That’s the question of the ages. Are we an evolutionary blip in the cosmic time scale? Perhaps part of a much larger community in the universe of which we’ve yet to find once we’re deemed ready by their council. Or maybe we were made to serve a higher power, and our time here is but a test of our character and faith. All things die, and in an ever-expanding universe (in theory), eventually the stars will go dark. Our memories lost forever in the void, and the monuments we’ve built reduced to drifting particles along a wave of energy that once fueled life on our planet. Does what we do matter, or is it all done in vain?
What’s the point when our memories will fade, and our names are forgotten as the headstones decay? To pass beyond the great veil at the end of life as our bodies return to dust. Life is a gift, and though we will reach the inevitable end one day, the path ahead still lies before us. Even if there is just a moment of happiness or joy, it’s still a moment more than none. A moment to be enjoyed in the short time we have. A moment, or day, to be seized. But not in pride of one’s self-worth, for all the riches in the world have no more value than the dirt beneath our feet.
Is it worth finding purpose and a meaningful life in the face of an otherwise futile existence? Perhaps in time, I too may find meaning before it’s too late, and walk among those who are no longer lost. Without meaning or purpose, we are but dust blowing in the wind, lost in futility.
N
MyNameIsDespair 