Things I Should Say- A Book of Poems

pointless

In the back of the shop where I work,
We hang up laundry to dry.
Pieces too delicate to be tossed into the heat of a tumbling dryer.
Sitting here I am staring
At a lined down coat.
This coat was washed,
Taking out stains and lint
Yet all of the water was not rung out in the spin cycle.
Saturated and weighed down
Its limp form hangs over a drying rack
And I can see a puddle forming under it where the water has dripped from its edges.
Water dropplet hits a concrete floor,
Colliding with all the other droplets to fall before it.
The smaller piece hits the greater whole of water
And it dissapears, becoming part of every other water dropplet. 

Our life is like the falling of the drop of water.
Brief, dull, and pointless.
We are born from the same thing everyone else is and when we die we all return to the mass
We cease to be different. 
So if we have mere seconds compared to the grand scheme of things,
And we just wind up in the same place as all the other dropplets
What is the point of experiencing the fall in the first place?
Life in its finality.
It's mindless monotony.
What is the point of it all?