We are a fickle bunch that states a need,

A patterned life might only true succeed.

We dance in storms, rather grumble toward peace

Yet every chance we have we seek release,

The pain, oh, the misery of lost time

Fantasy today tomorrow’s spent dime.

However long tradition’s eyes remain

We ought certain know acknowledgement’s reign

Priceless, shattered within our selfish realm

Will become fodder feeds the restless helm.

Ah, the human condition called to believe

Error in judgment, in planning, might leave.

When then we succumb to fears that soon ran

Why then we will know, we have conquered Man