when the ashes on the gold plate
that lies on a dust-covered shelf
are all that are left as souvenirs
of the warmth that once used to be;
and you don’t mind staring at them
for hours together,
you wonder if there is a reason at all-
a justification for all of this,
for everything that you have been through,
are going through,
and if destiny is just another myth that makes life
What if there’s no reason, none at all?
What if we are just a random collection of events?
What if all of this doesn’t matter?
Would we care?