“. . .the wretchedness of the human existence<\/p>\n
. . .the misguided belief that there is glamor in a human life . . .<\/p>\n
and that causes like kids, dogs, the poor, can be lived for. . .<\/p>\n
. . .and that these make for a life worth living . . .”<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I read her, assured of my stands, convinced to disagree,<\/p>\n
I know that I live above the misery of nihilism,<\/p>\n
For I feel the joy of aliveness. Of purposefulness.<\/p>\n
There must be glamor in life.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Timeless time later, an unwelcome mood descends,<\/p>\n
One of contemplation, and of ruthless scrutiny.<\/p>\n
My joy fades,\u00a0 my stands are shaken.<\/p>\n
For what do I live? And for what shall I live?<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The comfort of home, of family, of abundance<\/p>\n
Defies the excitement that rushes in my veins.<\/p>\n
The temptation to let go, to be free,<\/p>\n
Would destroy my stand in purposefulness,<\/p>\n
And the very bases that nourishes my aliveness.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Yet to what end is a life worth living<\/p>\n
To what fight shall my years be worth<\/p>\n
Shall I fight for the swines, for the trees, for the poor,<\/p>\n
Shall I fight for them all? To what end?<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n