A poetic exile

What is there to berate
Life—for: Why equate
It has not any meaning..?
Every sap that’s shelled-out
The husk, longs further, seeding.
“Every breath a water-spout
Leaps into death, pupate.
And is yet, still, dreaming...
Of the wings of perfection”,
Too fulfil life’s passion.
The gift of love’s pre-emption...