A pebble dropped upon the grand ocean of time,
A simple flower beneath the great sturdy oak,
Yet another face in the crowd painted unkind,
Are we all but a minute dream to Someone who has yet to woke?
What is life but a tale, a novel yet to be told?
What is passion if by Someone had we drawn fate?
What is love if my heart's carcass has already blossomed mold?
Presumably then, we are but players in this theatric play, until death we wait.
For we all live aside the greatest demon of all,
Life. The counting of time. And the knowing end,
The tale's conclusion when all is forgotten in a moment's call,
And alas we drift into the abyss -- the unknown purgatory where souls, doth alike recall our tales for no one. Amen.