Maybe the world is a game.
If it is, then death is just the goalpost.
The timer. The only real rule.
If it is, then dying is our final score.
Working may be desperate.
Wealth or happiness may make a difference.
We all subsist strategically,
Gaining or lacking in different amounts.
Totality pressures us
To decide which pursuits prove worthy
Of conscious individuality
While it’s ours to compare and contrast.
It’s just a poem.
Writing, but we know it’s a burden.
Words are ours to choose
Until space confines us to a stop.
