Purpose

What To Do About Being

Logic lashes through meaning. The human in me
Knows too much to ignore not the way that things are.
This star system is but a mere speck in deep space.
Planet earth is a micro speck cursed by our race.
New York City, a super micro spec, is far
Off the scale of significance, actually.

So, the source of creation may not even know
Of this speck of a system of which I’m a part.
If it ceased to exist in the blink of an eye,
Would it fail to take notice? I too much rely
On some force not within me to enter my heart.
Arrogance hinders me from just letting it go.

There’s no God given purpose for me to be here.
That all comes by conditioning. Humans perceive
Themselves as having purpose, but insensitive
We are to other species that are here to live
As we do – without discord. The web that we weave
Is of total entrapment in unconscious fear.

I Exist. That’s sufficient for me here and now.
My believing in something is not worth the pain
Of expecting good service from nature because
I’m the most worthy species. It gets no applause
From the source of creation. Why seek, but in vain,
What my purpose in life is? I can but allow.

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