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.