The End

I was thinking of life
Its endless questions, and answers,
Its endless meanings: beliefs,
If one may call them so; delusions,
The way some others see it, or don't,
When maybe it's themselves (not the former)
Who have it all wrong.
And all the sides are mentioned in that tale,
That endless singing of a song that I've known  
As far back as I can remember,
But that I'd never understood.
 
The songs sing of right and wrong,
Of brothers, stubborn in their strife
For overpassing, overturning, and surpassing,
Succeeding, exceeding; the very number
Of words for describing this notion
Stands as proof of its overwhelming, overcoming
Importance to our consciousness.
To what end?
 
To what end work, the prelude of rest?
To what end rest, the prelude of work?
To what end knowing,  
To what end attempting to forget?
To what end time?
To what end having it, wasting it?
To what end do we try to possess it?
To what end asking, answering?
To what end life?
To what end bearing ourselves with living it,
And still having to carry other souls among the path?
To what end but our own, to what end love?
 
When it comes to love, trying to find it
Is never the answer,
I finally decided,
For love does the finding, in itself,
The very chemistry is to blame,
The very science, the truth,
Whatever you shall call it,
It is one of those rare things, emotions,  
That we have the gift of feeling,
The very master of them all,
Their very mother and father,
And when it finds you there is, really,
No greater truth than emotion,
No greater emotion than love,
Which is chosen, not as a means to an end,  
But as an end in itself.  
 
I came to that conclusion.