What's the Point of Anything

This is the portrait of the artist
Or so the story goes
A young man with a confidence
In what he doesn't know

Living in, the here and now
Was his sole philosophy
Eschewing all the scriptures
Riddled with hypocrisy

Don't think about the future
All time will come to pass
Being present in the present
Is what gets us through the past

Recite the Buddhist mantras
Because the end is coming fast
And living in the moment
Is what makes the good times last

And though the existentialist
Finds pain in everything
Obsessed with death, and time that's left
Until it's lost its sting

So if our lives are meaningless
And life is suffering
Why this urge, to search for more
What's the point of anything

Visions of a vagabond
Dusty cap and canvas sack
Always squinting towards the sunset
And the chips against him stacked

Blind faith will lead you forward
Bad luck will set you back
If the pleasure's in the journey
The destination will not last

He thought he'd live like Kerouac
But the only stone he ever rolled
Was up a hill, like Sisyphus
Never found his open road

Yes the vision was a fantasy
Doubt was the shadow cast
Which darkened the light inside him
And so the decades passed

Hydrangeas on the table wilt
But still, their perfume lingers
And the creases of his skin hang soft
Around his cold and crooked fingers

In spite of all his life's regrets
Stillness was the kiss of death
And so our great protagonist
Draws slow his final breaths

Remembering the man he was
So cavalier and bold
Before the grim finality
Has firmly taken hold

So revel in your failures
And the enlightenment they bring
If you don't
Then what's the point
Of anything