The words as the blend As they bend As they move through each other Producing sounds almost soporific And saying everything Without saying anything in particular Strokes on a page That give way to the death of ideas And the birth of infinities We are their chess pieces Moving, dancing the patterns Never aware of the plan Of the greater game at hand Flies in the webs We weaved ourselves Caught by our own humanity In the lies we tell To get through the day To save those we loved From the burdens we think We must bear alone The simple burden of being alive Of taking every breath into our lungs And continuing the cycle The wheel turns.