We all are running circles of choices,
In a playhouse,
Directed by puppet master,
These patterns and motions,
Or the state of mind to conquer the world,
Is what brood an eternal misery,
And we become Jane Doe order,
Playing pretend with preference.
To save ourselves from these vexing habits,
We drown and bleed,
Working day and night,
Sweating blood in every sight.
Just to escape the poison of failure,
Yet, when it knock our door,
Some fall prey to its pattern and become the prisoner of what ifs and possibilities.
Their infallible desire to change the future,
Bring another whirlwind motion of despair.
Hence, we always enchanted by this unimaginable quest,
to change the past and future.
But time is a slave of motion,
And fate is its master.
It seldom entertain such lax request.
So, do we need not to prison ourselves,
With vanity of routine,
Or should we free ourselves from this crusade.
The choice is our,
To let time enslave us,
Or to create the infinite oblivion,
where time is just an illusion,
A human illusion.