There’s been a time when I took care,
Of a wife stricken with disease,
And though she’s gone for two years now,
At times the wound still bleeds,
For years I had a purpose,
And I don’t want a pat on the back,
But doing what I could for her,
Doesn’t help when memories attack.
Was there some sort of reason,
To have to watch her die,
Or was it just our destiny,
Striking from inside,
There was a time when faith grew dim,
Another stole my heart,
Now dreams assault me late at night,
And I’m thrice now ripped apart.
Purpose might come in many forms,
And it’s absence has a profound effect,
For awhile wandering aimlessly,
As ourselves we then protect,
Could it be it’s all a dream,
That our purpose is not real,
Seems to be a valid thing,
If it’s truly how we feel.
If we hold something as our purpose,
What happens when it’s taken away,
Do we pretend it never was,
To make it easier today,
Does the loss change the person,
Into someone they are not,
Just because it’s hard for them,
To pretend that they forgot.
Sometimes the only purpose left,
Might be to wither and die,
But just the fact we remember,
Should make us glad to be alive,
Our purpose is to hold our dreams,
To nurture them so they survive,
And the purpose of these open arms,
Is to hold you when you arrive.