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…