He cocked the gun and pulled the trigger.
"He couldn't handle the disabled life", they wept.
Though he wasn't perceived as the sharpest of all,
in the end, he was the most compassionate and, perhaps,
wisest.
He cocked that dreadful gun and pulled that horrid trigger.
"This was no accident", they lividly proclaimed.
And though his faculties failed him he went on,
until the very end,
the most caring and, perhaps,
wisest.

Weakened by life and roughened by time she returns to her home,
now a cradle of baseless hope.

Blissfully ignorant she starts her days, hopeful,
only to routinely end them deceived by life, debased.

Nihilism greets her in the beginning of each morn, feeding on what is left of her dreams.
Burned cigarettes fill her ashtray and empty liquir bottles dress her excuse for a living room. A mucky, stained carpet ties the room she is forced to call a bedroom.

Destitute and devoid of reason she contemplates her purpose.
"Purpose?" she wonders.
Perhaps some people simply don't have a purpose.
Perhaps a lost soul, like her, has no purpose.