Purpose

There is a poverty of mind in the theist
Who sits, convinced they were made,
Given life and a purpose to exist.
In little more than an imaginary cage.

Crafted from dust, or clay, or a rib bone
By an omnipotent being, eager to fill
A long and lonely, dull Afternoon.
As a toy made and played with still.

A cosmic bum, eager for their handout,
Of meaning, significance and goals,
Received without effort given a rout,
Convinced they have immortal souls.

Is immortality, all its cracked up to be,
To an infinity of sameness condemned,
Eon upon eon of changeless monotony.
Sentenced to existence without end.

What value, purpose or meaning, if given?
I'd rather create and define my own.
An universal infinite journey begun.
Or is humanity, a child, not yet grown?