Quicken pulse, heart beats so fast, palms sweat salt water,
logic is no where to be found, yet it strains all of existance,
with a stentch so fowl, none can deny the smell it leaves all
about them, and me, us and we, no one in space or time, now
or than, can look past this well known fact. Even though as we
humans do learn more about this world we live in, facts of old
become false, falses of old become truth. Yet who is to tell
what is true or false in this world of grey. Many ask the questions,
none have found the answers, so the questions live on, unanswered.
The unknown feared above all else, the dark, the danger, the
unexplain, all do fear this potental pain. Step by step, day by day,
unknown seeps up from the grave. So often do we in life assumes
that we are safe in our warm little beds, but foolish ones do rest,
their hands. Awaken to take arms they do, when the warning bell
does sound, to late for them to save their lives, for bodies dress
the ground. Dress it nice and fancy, the bodies fall in place,
each make a design that was already perarranged. For we
are nothing but puppets, tied to a bit of string, with no
control we are sent to dance across the stage of life.
A life full of parts, and plays, with the shining stars, the
understudies, and of course the stage crew. We all play a
part in this grand production, and the director grins
so wide, for he decides the place, the words, and even when
we cry. So who is this mighting being the pulls the strings
of every life, this gentle soul is none other then death, himself.