The Purpose for Being

Mother has found her own nature
within her womb, and that which she bore out,
she knows herself, better than any,
and understands the plight,
but she cannot answer
and she will never speak.

She lets us smell it first,
the fermented scent
that lavishes in the morning air,
to simply let us know she's still there.

The question scratches at us
like a turntable now covered in dust,
we feel obsolete,
we circle around and play
the same dreary tunes of yester years,
and we can't bring ourselves to escape the past.

Losing our own reason
and we, pondering our purpose,
can only question out,
though the sole meaning can only be found
through a query within.

If we search ourselves for a reason to be,
are we one amongst many with just cause
or are we separately selfish and soulless?