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They say we are endowed with Free Will - |
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at least that justifies our need for indecision. |
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But between our insticts and the lust to kill |
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we bow our heads in submission. |
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They say that no man is an island |
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but then they say our castles are our homes; |
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it's felt the choice is ours, between peace and violence... |
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oh, yes, we choose, alone? |
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While the comet spreads its tail across the sky |
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it nowhere near defines the course it flies, |
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nor does it find its own direction. |
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Though the path of the comet be sure, |
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its constitution is not |
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so its meaning is possibly more |
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than the tracing of a tail |
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in one brief shot at glory. |
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Love and peace and individuality, |
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so order and society are man-made? |
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War and hate and dark depravity, |
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or are we slaves? |
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Channeling aggressive energies, |
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the Death Wish and the Will to survive, |
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into finding and preserving enemies, |
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is that the only way we know that we're alive? |
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In the slaughterhouse all corpses smell the same, |
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whether queens or pawns or innocents at the game; |
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in the cemetery a uniform cloaks the graves |
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except for outward pomp and circumstance. |
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There is a time set in the calendar |
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when all reason seems barely enough |
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to sustain all the shooting stars: |
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times are rough. |
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I'm waiting for something to happen here, |
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it feels as though it's long overdue... |
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maybe a restatement of yesteryear |
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or something entirely new. |
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And the knowledge that we gain in part |
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always leads us closer to the very start, |
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and to the founding questions: |
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How can I tell that the road signed to hell |
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doesn't lead up to heaven? |
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What can I say when, in some obscure way, |
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I am my own direction? |