Lax

What is life but a fable agreed upon
By the people surrounding us?

We are told when to wake and when to sleep,
When to eat and when to speak.
We are taught how to see the world
As others see it - and never seek it.

We are prisoners chained to the rock,
Enslaved to shackles of destined fate.
Our purpose to live has been foretold,
And our means of death prophesied.

Like Deadalus we yearn for free flight,
To soar unrestrained from the prison of Crete,
To flee from the labyrinth of no escape -
Knowing full well - there's no way we can.

Like the rock on the shore which becomes sand,
Or the flower in the garden that will wilt,
And Gaia spins around eclipsed Helios:
All omnipotent, all laughing at our plight,
As they play us like pawns to the king of gods.

Is that what life is?
A story of marching slaves towards a bottomless pit?
A chronicle of sorrowful facts that never end,
As the clocks tick by and breath erodes away?
Like a plot already predetermined by prophecy?

So, what is life but a fable agreed upon?