What is the purpose?
What is the answer?
At sixteen how can he respond to that,
or even comprehend the question?
and yet he continually strives to,
Like the pendulum of his grandfathers old clock.
The clock that struck his wanting;
religion, reason, messiah, mind
Which is right, correct?
The everlasting debate
for the great thinkers of the world.
The ideas intertwined in a rope as long as time.
And yet they are light years apart,
like opposite magnets battling for position,
each, in turn pushing the other away.
How can he, at sixteen,
be expected to comprehend, no,
make up his mind on the matter.
Lying in bed he waits
until the two clouds
create the relieving spark of realization.
But until then he must
sit
wait
wonder…
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