Purpose

Everyone's purpose is as light as a floating feather. Unfortunately, the focus on it is like stirring mud in weather that currently coats fog on past tense verbs and a current that doesn't flow in any particular direction within current words. It deprives everything involved; it is misunderstood. In a field of dandelions that have turned into the tooth of the lion, blow the seeds that have become transparently lovely, the flowers we consider weeds, with a harmonica full of soul that makes snowfall and sunshine toast a drink and dance together in a direction that makes adjectives jealous. Maybe a seed will land in the sea and it will be buried in the sand when the riptide buries the root, and your song will become as bluesy and intense as the tides. There is a chance that an eagle will grace your presence and a stranded quill will land under the part of the wing you lost to lift you up. Even with an intense mist and heavy covering, you're willing to ruin a good stirring spoon. Be grateful for however you get your feather floating.