I see people. All without a purpose. Living pointless lives.
Lying facedown in their metaphorical ditch.
I’m the Hobo with the stick. Poking. Poking them all.
I may not be better off. I may not have what they could have had. Should have taken.
But I have a purpose.
My purpose may not be moral. May not be right. But it’s there.
Bound with the straps I created. That I personally secured.
The lunatic with the axe has a purpose. To disassemble.
To nudge things out of their assumed order. Whether or not that may be meat isn't important.
The brainwashed police officer. With the oh so shiny badge. And the big bad firearm.
Has a purpose. To bring justice to the innocent.
The solid foundation of security that I have built has been spat on.
By none other than myself.
I don’t want order. I don’t want boundaries.
I want a well established purpose. Secure? I have nothing to protect it from.
Other than my own ambiguous motives.
Which are well hidden. And vague even to me.