What shall the purpose be
When its essence has vanished?
By what means keep going
When obscure indexes are given?
How could one sense where it aims
When it's so far apart, yet chained?
What's to it, or what else would count
When all seems lost, distant, spiritual?
What, then, shall one go for?
The mind?
The heart?
Oneself, but not its work?
Poetry / Feelings