We are not autonomous agents
Born from split atoms whose heads are placed on upside down
Metaphysical refinement atoned upon us
We are a cycle of washed out fragments
Bone marrow and plastic debris
A graveyard flattered by dying light
The candle flickers wildly in hallows
It feels so poetic
We both know it's divine in an irreverent fashion
I've never believed in free will
To think that I can set blaze to my narrative
And carve out my own caves
Would be such a foolish illusion
I am formed by the ones who came before me
My life inked before me on the very first hospital bed
I rested upon
You may think it's unfair
I find it to be of sheepish solace
I will never
Find myself
If I am just
A split second of refracted physics.