STRANGER THAN FICTION

Quietly they spin both the cause and effect, of all that is.
Tiny particles conspiring in patterns called reality,
With direction and purpose, not compassion or feeling.
Unaware of their own existence they tirelessly toil.
Past efforts to beg for mercy seem mostly futile.
Can any escape their indiscriminate wrath?
Might we change the cold clinical verdict of death?

Bodies and minds acquired without solicitation,
Wandering in a great stupor, staggering aimlessly,
Continuously arriving never to complete the journey,
To be replaced by another more desperate need.
Forever striving, few face the agony of satisfaction.
Don't we own the particles of the vessel we row?
Then how can it be taken from our control?

Through great effort and sacrifice we search,
Complexities of a magnitude to torment the mind.
Forward we march, but where will we go?
Do they receive instruction from another source?
Who has the courage to look upon the face of God?
Who will beg mercy for our embattled race,
When we humbly peer through the fabric of space?