An original poem by Coeur d’un Poète.
What does it mean, really, to live,
and to be alive?
I’ve pondered this question forever
and still can’t find an answer.
We struggle for resources against each other,
seeking to shape the fittest fighter.
We live to work until the day we grow older
and seldom aspire for stories far grander.
The material feels matterless
when living matters the most.
Where money rules, hollow is happiness
in the cradle of the cold, human host.
To be or not to be, he said,
this is the single, heaviest question.
The struggle of pondering, as weighty as lead,
short of brooding in such depressing fasion.
Why do we exist, if only to labour?
Surely, there is meaning beyond crunching numbers?
We live and struggle, only to return as specks of dust;
It’s a funny world in which we were thrust.