Poetry: Kismet

Kismet
January 24, 2002

What puppets we are at the hands of love
The fingers that play, control from above
A tug this way and we feel our hearts soar,
A little slack comes in and the lovers are torn.

Could it be true, that our lives are just a play?
The strings of fate pulling us each our own way.
Rhythmless movement to a tune we cannot hear
And we dance with people we hold dear or we fear.

What slaves we are to the bonds of family
With roots that run deep, we are held to the tree
When hard winds blow, we all feel the gale,
And when good times flow, we all partake the ale

Is it fact that the apple doesn’t wander too far?
Wherever we may be, we are what we are...
Rolling through life for all eternity
With each new fruit carrying the same basic seeds.

What pawns we are in our work everyday
Under kings and queens who navigate the way
Step by step we move up in the game,
With the common end of bearing the queen’s name.

Are we really so ambitious that we never look around?
Never testing the doors that we suspect are unsound?
By keeping our target focussed only on one goal
The carrot is dangled and the blinders play their role.

How is it we do not sense these powers that be
Indifferent to forces, we pretend we are free...
Like a kite on a string we fly high and soar about,
Ignoring the power of the wind and the one who holds the clout.