Is there nothing in this world
worth the breath obligatory to utter
even the faintest moan of effort?
Or is the purpose of life simply
to forever gasp for that next gulp
of bitter indifference offered up so readily
by the stoic hand of reality?
Tell me, O great minds of man,
to what does it all amount?
Save me, slaves of mortality and
you condemned by ignorance, why
do I struggle so to steal a breath
when I know not what it is for?