| They say we are endowed with Free Will —
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| At least that justifies our need for indecision
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| But between our insticts and the lust to kill
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| We bow our heads in submission
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| They say that no man is an island
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| But then they say our castles are our homes;
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| It’s felt the choice is ours, between peace and violence…
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| Oh, yes, we choose, alone?
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| While the comet spreads its tail across the sky
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| It nowhere near defines the course it flies
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| Nor does it find its own direction
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| Though the path of the comet be sure
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| Its constitution is not
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| So its meaning is possibly more
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| Than the tracing of a tail
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| In one brief shot at glory
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| Love and peace and individuality
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| So order and society are man-made?
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| War and hate and dark depravity
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| Or are we slaves?
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| Channeling aggressive energies
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| The Death Wish and the Will to survive
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| Into finding and preserving enemies
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| Is that the only way we know that we’re alive?
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| In the slaughterhouse all corpses smell the same
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| Whether queens or pawns or innocents at the game;
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| In the cemetery a uniform cloaks the graves
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| Except for outward pomp and circumstance
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| There is a time set in the calendar
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| When all reason seems barely enough
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| To sustain all the shooting stars:
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| Times are rough
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| I’m waiting for something to happen here
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| It feels as though it’s long overdue…
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| Maybe a restatement of yesteryear
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| Or something entirely new
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| And the knowledge that we gain in part
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| Always leads us closer to the very start
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| And to the founding questions:
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| How can I tell that the road signed to hell
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| Doesn’t lead up to heaven?
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| What can I say when, in some obscure way
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| I am my own direction? |