There once was a man,
With a face set in stone,
Who lived ever in fear,
Of a life all alone.

For every time happiness,
knocked at his door,
He soon saw it's back,
As evermore his heart tore.

But still again and again,
He gave chase and pursuit.
And he hoped that each time,
His love, wouldn't be moot.

There must be a point,
He would say to the sky.
Or else why do we grieve,
And why do we cry?

He sat and he pondered,
Muttered away his days.
Til at last he hit upon it,
Though he had gained a great age.

The reasons for living,
Are few and far between,
If you find yourself lonesome,
With no loved ones, like me.

But it is better to change,
To relinquish the blame,
Then to sit ever trying,
To uncover fate's aim.

For though the philosopher,
May seem wise indeed,
Often times he's a lonesome,
Pariah like me.

So wonder not,
At the meaning of life.
Do not attempt to discover,
The source of all strife.
Leave all that you have,
To the masked man called chance.
Live your life to the fullest,
Give the past not a glance.

So the old man spoke, and then with sigh,
His eyelids slipped closed, and he turned his visage on high. His face so long twisted with the guttural tint of rage,
Relaxed while night fell on a wise man's last day.