Thesmothete

We the puppets
Of the Thesmothete
Dancing merrily
Oblivious to the impending doom
That dances next to us
In a slow waltz
Graduating towards our 
Faint tiptoe.

We the players
Of the played
Quite content with what we have
But not by what we are
Swinging gently to the tunes
Of this superficial prosperity
That one day will consume us all
Into it's vortex of
Hopelessness.

O such woeful cycle of 
The ordinary.

We the ordinary
Whose tiny little
Insignificant lives
Matter too much
On our already stooping
Shoulders
By the attrition of time.

Yet our pompous lives
So funnily fragile.

We the sustainers 
Of all that lives
And dies
Unto itself,
Collapse
Into perhaps this only 
Pit of endless darkness called life.

We the puppets
Dancing along 
Without them strings.