Is it enough, this existence,
this mosey through the ages,
this trudge past useless days and nights,
with no direction, no effect?
The mind so sadly sated
by empty conversations,
by meaningless exchanges
where no one bothers, no one hears?
The heart so cheaply purchased
by stiff and stifled passions,
by false and faithless feelings
that never answer, never please?
The soul so smoothly taken
by noisy, stale agendas,
by worthless propaganda
without belief, without the truth?
The life that lives without a thought,
the thoughts that churn and falter,
the purposes that won’t achieve
and selves that will not alter—
the ways that lead to high and low
the roads both smooth and rough,
the life that wanders through this age
will never be enough.
(c) B. Martin