Epitaph to a Wave

The moon is forlorn.
From the midst of the sea, a wave is born.

Basically meek, it does not know
Why it is, or where it will go.
In silent decision, it gathers in force,
And, like a ripple, speeds away from its source.
It has no purpose: (like the rest of its kind)
It rolls on without destination in mind.
It grows in stature, in power and might,
Still devoid of ambition, with no goal in sight.
It gathers momentum, not knowing what for,
And, with one final fling, it dies on the shore.

He dashes through life with a rush and a rave:
He dies without question.  Man must be a wave!