This is life,
Worth living but not,
Nothing makes it better than loss,
Better not come than come and go.
The journey into life blows a trumpet for nine months,
Giving information to the one ignorant of its coming,
But the way out gives no friendly consideration.
Is this life?
When one is under struggle,
A struggle for survival,
The survival of the fittest,
A life were nature takes what it likes,
And live behind those it deem fitted,
A life were the dead live their love ones to mourning,
A life which is never permanent,
A short lived life
I am in a journey,
To survey the World,
Looking through the concept of life,
To see if truly there is a purpose for it,
And probably lay a conclusion.
Yes I perceive such instinct,
Though nothing seems important,
Non to an extent worth dying for,
For all have and end up,
And to the divinity of life shows it purposes,
When the curiosity of knowing assumed a maker,
And if never assumed makes the mystery solemn,
And to a last resort end up without clear evidence of what truly is the purpose of life,
Such that the death cannot explain.
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