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The world as our stage,
We speak our lines,
To empty skies,
Caught up in the tragic, blissful, rapture of our lies.

Empty chairs,
No more cares,
Forever held in immortal rhyme.
Forgotten in the face of aging time,
No longer are we in our prime.

Looking down to the peaceful sound,
Of our voices mingling,
None singling,
As we are all the same,
Now isn't that just lame?

The same mistakes,
Over and over,
What will it take to deviate,
From our script.

We have stumbled,
We have tripped,
Yet continue to mumble, Those same lines.

Have we been brainwashed,
And at what cost?
What was lost?

There must be some hidden plot,
Something we forgot.
Maybe one day we'll have the guts,
To remember.

Until then we will speak these lines,
Unto empty skies,
Struggling deeper into our own web of lies.