Who writes the story of our lives?
Is it the weigher of our virtue and our vice?
Is God the one who throws the dice?
Or is it ourselves?
Or does The Devil force our hand?
Is he the one who flipped the hourglass?
Is he to blame for trickling of sand?
Is she the one who flipped the script?
And was it by swift motion of her hand
that in the bud the rose was nipped?

An infinitude of possibilities lies latent
within a singularity.. that is our actuality.
Truth is.. some souls are damned to live
in separate realities.
Within a world of their own making.
Without a giving shared.
Without a taking.

Are things the way that
they are meant to be?
Or are they solo travelers
along non-overlapping branches
of an infinitely recursive
possibility tree?