A thousand strings of a thousand gods
  orchestrate our lives. We think we are
  in control. Baby boomers, spoiled brats.
  We missed our hardships to make us pure.

  Our parents did the suffering. They were
  damaged from brutal truths they bled
  bent on keeping us safe from the flames
  that licked and kicked the living to dead.

  We live as puppets of circumstance and hope.
  We seek answers where none exists. We'll die
  like those before us. Hating life and death
  not for the actors but for the play's lie.