Why should I say all this was made for you?
You mortal thing who'll die, and dead remain,
Or live in place, and ever and again
Repeat a script to comers old and new?
Can you not see the carpentry and paste?
The paths so anxious for a quester's tread,
The purpose writ so clear around your head,
The walls that stand to hide a empty waste?
You know your life takes form before my eye?
You blindly bear a purpose and a name,
Survive as toy or kiosk, or else die
in joyless sport, a token of the game.
And in a game, perhaps I'd fight to slay...
I hope that changes when I turn away.
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