In the end, we find no purpose,
After a lifetime of relentless searching.
We are but driftwood,
Swept away by the tides of fate.
Eagerly seeking, always looking,
For a meaning, a reason,
Yet often feeling lost,
Like leaves blown aimlessly by the wind.
But when we reverse our gaze,
Like leaves, we find a path to follow.
Not lost, but destined,
For a journey, a tale,
Always moving, eagerly seeking,
Guided by the stars above.
We are not just driftwood,
For in our hearts, purpose is birthing.
After a lifetime of experiences,
We realize, purpose was with us from the start.
