Futility

They say ‘all the world’s a stage,’
So what are we, then?
When we walk so briefly on this earth,
Do we too walk in the lights of the stage,
The eyes of the cosmic audience on us?
What kind of applause, I wonder,
Will I receive when I die?
When the scenes are done,
The players called forward,
Will we see the light in the eyes of cheering admirers?
Our life is brief,
Our lines and numbers cut and amended,
But what came before those cuts?
How long was the play, the life of man?
How much of my life did I cut away by my own hand?
I like to stand in the wings,
It’s where I feel most comfortable,
Watching, seeing, pulling invisible strings,
But now, I wonder,
Who pulls those strings for me?
When my life is done,
The curtain called,
The sets destroyed,
Will I leave the limelight and start anew,
Pulling the strings of someone else’s show?