Of all the words a poet can say,
the pages only seem to betray
the thought of the mastermind who did compose
the story unfolded that lost all control.

People do go "Aren't our fates written there?
With the stars in the sky and the sun in the air?"
But the constellations only do suppose
we were only left with our horoscopes.

For the fools who consider life as an open book,
I wish I were Fate to explain the hook;
it's enticing and eye-catching, reeling us in,
but in the end, we're the bait, not the ones to win.

To the victors and sore losers, we can't play the game.
If death is the only doom that is rained,
we can't conquer anything as these mere humans.
We can't even reign over any solutions.

There're so many problems that cannot be fixed!
Were they meant to be and left as it is?
Alas, we always try to bend it to our will;
the world, the earth, and our contentious pill.

This drug we've swallowed to believe we have it all
will only lead us to our demise, our downfall.
If only the globe could stop spinning, we'll see
that we are merely just puppets and actors in a scene.