Sometimes it's said we're made of stardust,

But other times we're made of rust.

And yet again, sometimes it's said that we've been sculpted by something divine.

As if we were made just to drink wine.

We live as we must,

being controlled by love, and lust.

Until we meet the box made of pine,

and our bones are made into shrines.

Soon our bodies will combust,

and there will be nothing left for us to distrust.

Until that day comes, we're forced to define,

everything, and anything until we have no more spine.

Is it really a must,

though to make everything so just?

Can we not fall off the line?

Do we always have to be so refined?