Purpose Over Everything

There is a kingdom that offers cashmere roads,

woven with comfort and claps,

draped in gold.

Yet some choose the path

cut by thorns, mapped by stars,

marching barefoot into the unknown.

Purpose is a quiet flame;

it does not beg the wind.

It becomes a sword

when the id and ego collide and crash.

It burns through storms

and learns the language of ash.

Yet you walk with dust on your ankles,

eyes fixed on a far-off dawn,

carrying a compass no one sees,

one that never lies,

but often makes you pause and freeze.

You let the nights test your bones,

let time interrogate your pace.

Because you know

it is better to arrive broken but breathing

than to arrive without meaning.

For comfort fades,

applause echoes hollow,

and gold forgets how it shone,

but purpose can turn ephemeral ruins to eternal harvests

and make the fire feel like your own.