Purpose

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In the midst of the murmur, in a bar most malign,

two men of different fortune,

whose purpose grow entwine.

 

The first was a man of money, though his substance of little worth.

His spirit was mean and his temper was keen.

A self-righteous fool from birth.

 

And drawing the tar from his Cuban cigar,

his obnoxion transcended through smoke.

His presence then drifted, to another lung it was gifted,

“Sir!”, bemoaned the barman. “Your bluster is making me choke”.

 

The fool ignited in scowl.

 

“MIND YOUR PURPOSE!

 

Your purpose...standing there, tending your surface.

If you serve no people then you serve no purpose.

You, my dear boy, are worthless".

 

It was a damning report.

But then, in short, came this barman's retort.

“Worthless? Perish the thought. Why only last week I did the noblest of feat,

and saved a man choking on cork”.

 

“Cork?” barked the fool. The cigar now tailored his veil.

And with malice in thought and a face so contort,

he began his putrid exhale...

 

“Then more is the pity.

With your purpose now served you are misery preserved.

The lowliest wretch in the city.

 

Your climax has peaked, and with outlook so bleak your irrelevance now wreaks if no more reason do you seek.

 

You hold no value and you hold no purpose.

You are indeed boy....worthless.

 

A quiet descended. But then, with humility in pride our barman replied...

 

“You are most direct, sir,

but suppose you are correct, sir.

 

If around us all a plan does revolve

then your purpose in life may be to test my resolve.

 

Or an errant sneeze to spread some disease,

or simply cause anger when you forget to say please.

 

What a comfort it is that my role be so great,

to save a mans life and avoid him his fate.

 

It is you sir, who is lost

yet through your veil you maybe don't see.

But If I have served my purpose then,

without your burden, I am free.

 

.........

 

Quiet again, as the fog bore no reply.

No counterclaim. No quip or a lie.

 

But something had changed, as the mist rose from the bar.

There was no wealthy fool, just an empty stool,

and his worthless Cuban cigar.

◄ The Fear Of Missing Out.

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Comments

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Emaz Malik

Sat 26th May 2018 22:08

Beautifully written

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M.C. Newberry

Fri 25th May 2018 15:00

Some points well made and entertaining in their framework.

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