Humans will do anything to get what they want.
They kill and they glom, but all is for naught.
In the cessation, they’re all just bones whose lives have
been drained by
Time’s ticking clock.
Wish on a wishbone but know that in the terminus
you’ll never peregrinate home.
The ashes of life will fly through the air,
parading your dreams that never you dared.
You have no control despite what you celebrate,
your decisions puppeteered right on a string.
There’s no cutting it off and no use in running
when your good fortune is nothing but
the fortuity of the draw.