Some spend a life looking into that great void,
Others, a life running from it.
Some seem sweetly uninformed of its lurking wait,
Others, carry it with them every day.

Some bargain,
Some plead.
Some pray,
Some blame.

In the end, few realize it’s merely a game.

One in which the players have given no consent.
One in which no one has really made any dent.

The children are crying, their parents are too
We’ve been sent to this place sans even a clue.

We shall, all of us, come to an end.
That is a rule that simply won’t bend.

The children are playing, their parents praying
But nothing will suffice.
Behold, to the Mighty Hands, we are but
A handful of mice.

Destined to drown, to depart, to die
That great bucket shall be kicked, and we shall never know

why.