The Point of Life

Whether it be a fly thee kill, or be it a monster slain by thy righteous hand,
Death in all it’s glory is still a sorrowful thing.
The perception is all that matters.
Who knows, the monster might be the avatar of the very gods thee worship.
God plays a game in the queerest of ways, ways we may never understand,
As for that sword you lift, it may be the bane of those you love the most.
Life is a strange phenomenon.
It is the soul that matters.
The ones that tread in light sweat as the sun tires them,
And the moon sends chills down the nighttime traveller,
Filling the mind with horrors with questionable existence.
Yet, we all tread on.
Maybe that is the point of life, to find a point in this spherical object,
Cyclic in nature and spirit, with nothing to lose or gain,
Except that we believe we are attached to.
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