I guess we can play this again

Such pretty strings, these ancient webs, showing us true divinity.

Pointless and unyielding, these strings show only futility.

One pluck—a harp's voice—travels and grows into waves.

And no matter what, it all ends at the same grave.

These strings show us every and all roads, though not all will be taken.

We are born and led like herd, tied by these strings—don't be mistaken.

To have will is a gift indeed, to move forward wherever we please.

Our steps are on a highwire created with only three guarantees.

And that is what you believe; you've plucked your harp's strings.

*

Let it be known, I do wish for more, but once sickness, poverty, or death arrives, it's proof that these ancient webs are just for show.

Duality must exist for us to grow.

If there was only goodness, then there would only be goodness.

If there was only goodness, then there would be no goodness.

Which shows not only are the strings illusions, mirages, delusions, but to have these strings ring true, darkness must take harbor.

Where else should our mind wander, if not the possibilities of what's farther?

Theories and wonders and guesses are just our nature, a cruel curse instilled in us from creation.

Then why do we grow and walk forth, if not from some motivation or inspiration?

Oh, go on and play your part in this puppet theater.

*

Stand on this stage and hold my hands.

There seem to be too many demands.

Dancing is part of this "futile" life.

It seems so; these strings pull us into strife.

At least the songs, at times, can be nice.

*

Follow my steps.

And what next?

We dance among these dreams of choosing strings.

Maybe if we dance long enough, you'll see we are kings.

At least the dance with you, at times, is serene.

*

What a life to live.

What a life to live.

*

At least we agree on one thing.