Infection of the Heart
Some souls anguish even on warm days
with an infection of the heart
that has no herbal cure.
Some people ask question and seek answers
about things that make no sense...
Some get stuck in shadows that don't exist...
Most questions open minds... but not all;
Some questions lay seeds of despair,
sending lone souls down paths
where there are no answers there.
Why does one plus one equal three?
It's a question that makes no sense to you and me;
But some hearts want to know the answer
because the question torments endlessly.
Obsessively seeking, opening doors, creaking,
searching the chambers of an empty house;
filled with a passion to build a mansion of thought
with only whispers and shadows and ghosts...
Even castles mortared in stone someday fall;
it makes a broken heart feel so small...
What is the meaning of it all?
That natural question... the one we all face;
the one most answer with religious embrace
and others ignore—it's invalid to ask.
Logic is cruel when the question is wrong
and horribly mean when the premises are off.
There is no meaning to it all!
There is only meaning to you and me
and all the wonderful things that can be,
the warm moments to share and dream and see.
We are so small... here only for a short time;
a hundred years ago we were not even a thought;
a hundred years from now we'll likely be forgot.
Perhaps that alone makes our lives sublime.