To a Sponge

To what end does the sponge reside, 
In the shifting waters of the ocean tide?
With no grasp, no hand to guide,
No path by which it does abide.

It exists by no plan or thought,
Its meals are with no skill caught,
It follows the road the ocean wrought,
Its own directions, all for naught.

For what reason does the sponge exist,
And in its toil, does persist? 
Of what does a change consist,
That such a thing be missed?

Are we without a goal or end,
For which with life we do contend?
Or does man to his own will bend,
And in some way, the world amend.


Jeff Depree