Repetition in the recitation of our ordinary lives...

Repetition in the recitation of our ordinary lives,
No splendor or grandeur, no extraordinary grace,
No time for timing or timing for humor,
A hundred days or twenty one, seem to me the same,
Eventless,
Each one even less worth the effort than the last,
But then something has to be different,
Or does there?
No, forget it, it remains the same,
Routine bludgeons all thinking ability,
But there lies hope still, in death,
Or old age, or retirement, or just in making better choices,
Choices exist as an optimist’s dream,
I really don’t have any control over my set of choices,
Neither, sadly, does anyone else,
Choice of life or death, of activity over slumber,
Choosing aggression or depression, a choice in knowing what you want or who you want to be with,
But that too is restricted to that which you see and those you meet,
Most choices are like most people and coins,
Two-faced and laden with hidden truths, or untruths,
That’s how helpless we are,
Our lives dominated by the two faces of a coin or man and you can only pick one,
Choices are nothing but a false sense of control in a world hell bent on losing it,
Fate is what is real; yes the myth is what is real,
Fate determines your set of choices and your hand in the final deal of the final deck,
Our choices have already been made, but only time can present them to us, to help understand, where we have been and where it is that we now stand,
No one has a choice, not in life anyway,
The one thing you can choose is to die,
To die before it might be destined, in circumstances that you want,
But it might so happen that even that choice of yours was destined to present itself to you in due passage of time,
Time and fate, fate and time,
Driven by each other they map our existence,
And we live then in these plotted days as pawns, or rooks or knights, never kings,
Not even of our own destiny,
You shouldn’t place too much importance in your next move, for your plotted existence will present itself to you,
So lead your meager, mundane life as a piece on a decorated sixty-four cell table,
And know,
That is what is real… fate is what is real…Repetition in the recitation of our ordinary lives,
No time or need or want to think,
All the time in the world to justify the lies…

The inadequate meal

Fiery raven eyes, shining in the night,
Large silvery wings, reflecting the moonlight,
Cold, frozen stares, an icy wind blows,
A pack of wild wolves promptly arrange themselves in rows.
Hellish shrieks of a scared mountain beast,
Fallen to the ground being prepared for the feast,
Four legged reptiles slowly rise from the swampy marshland,
And from afar stare convicts, as from the feast; they’ve been banned,
A feline family of large monstrous cats,
Arrive at the scene, under the shade of vampire bats,
The blistered bleeding beast is now screened for consumption,
Every tender inch is felt leaving no room for assumption,
A thorough investigation of the meal and its size,
Creates a sort of panic, as the guests realize,
That the poor monster is not enough to feed them whole,
And the hunger in their stomach takes on them a very heavy toll,
Verbal atrocities begin to flow,
And physical abuse is beginning to show,
A fight to the death, to the end, to the point of no return,
A nightmarish duel where all participating end up in an urn,
Nothing left to do now, nothing left to feel,
All that is left remaining is the inadequate meal.