What is this life?

What is this life?

That waits and wiles

In idle ways

And spends too long

In pointless rumination,

As restless youth

And mystery fade.

Does it even matter,

If the answer

To a question,

Too often asked,

And self indulged,

Is ever understood?

What is the use

Of such a thing

As meaningful

Contemplation,

When life and love

So rarely seen

Can pass on by

With barely

Any recognition.

The grind,

That daily

Wears the willing flesh

Right down,

To the bone.

The grit it takes

To fight,

Despite ,

The weight,

And taste of dirt,

Thrown up

To camouflage,

And obscure

A truth,

So rarely found.

Is there

Ever such a thing

As a good man?

A true Samaritan

Who takes time

To raise the bar

Of expectation.

Too easily missed,

As we pass

In idle chatter,

And barely

See, the stolen

Generation.

Who scrape

Their way

From day to day,

Until fingers bleed.

The frantic scrabble

To survive,

The need we humans

Have to strive.

To exist.

That somehow never

Leaves.

And yet,

Over coffee and

Profiteroles,

We pontificate,

The very meaning

Of existence,

As if it has no soul,

And matters not,

But is a mere

Topic of conversation,

A philosophic deliberation,

Just words and rhetoric,

Purely hypothetic.

Please just tell me

Now.

I want to know,

How pathetic

Is that…really.