What are we?

another poem from my youth, one I wrote for my father on father's day.

 

What are we without hope?

Our lives are made with having to believe in something.

We may think vain strains of ideas about our origin.

Of course not very vain to us at the time,

But useful in the fact that it occupies the mind.

Whether there be an actual celestial being,

Or even if science is correct in its assumptions,

Do we not search for the meaning of our existence?

Because of hope?

But do we honestly,

In our hearts, believe that,

Our existence is a result of a very slim chance?

Science has calculated that chance of existence.

Very slim as it is,

We are here,

And so we hope for the answer,

Either through blind faith, science, or both,

Hope is what drives us,

So be glad of hope,

And hope for the right.

But as for me,

I’ll believe,

Believe in the chance of God,

and have both faith and hope in him.

For what are we without hope.