Gazing into the abyss 
Of life's immutable Absurdity; 
He feels that emptiness, 
Which taunts all humankind, 
As it immerses, he is smiling 
With a sweet, sickly repose, as 
He is certain of uncertainty. 
He sees the people all around him,
Pining for a sense of purpose, he's 
Freed from their hope, and its duress,
From all their visions of success, 
The kind which taunt so many men, 
Through sleepless nights, as they obsess. 
Now he's laughing to himself, and 
Thinking "who must we impress?" 
"...and for that matter, why?"
It's this pretension he detests,
"Why this needless apprehension,
Living life at the behest, of 
Foolish men, with feeble minds, 
Who vainly strive to be 'the best', and
Only to awaken, a few decades down the line,
To find that life was insubstantial, 
In those years they left behind?"
"I can only search for meaning,
It can't be prescribed to me, and
Perhaps there isn't one, but then
Why does there need to be?"
The corners of his mouth curl upward, as
Dead leaves fall from a tree, and 
Are scattered to the wind, 
"Ah, such is my mortality."