What's the point of living?
A bleak question, I know,
But it still holds merit.
For why must we hold dear
Something, that in the end
Is forever meaningless.

Generations go by, quicker than winks,
What are the odds of being remembered?
Subsequent years after death, it gets less
And less, until you are all but forgot.
What happens to history after that?

Absolutely nothing.
Life keeps marching forwards,
Leaving behind countless.
Oh, to be forgotten,
We will all become that soon.