Just what have we done to deserve the pain?
Did we blaspheme or kill
Did we revolt and defy
Or were we just born
Into the wrong world at the wrong time

Our lives, fragile and bending
Bending to the will of our masters
They, whoever they are
Have carved our lives’ trail and story
Like hieroglyphs carved into slabs of black obsidian

And only the strongest of us can rearrange the carvings
The chiseled stories, not in our favor
The weak ones just sit in the halls of pyramids
Staring up at the story stones
And weeping at their life story, told in obsidian

The masters, completely oblivious
Shaping our fate into something we can’t take
The stones of our lives
Carved by tools like chisels
Grasped by their sore hands

They won’t stop working
No matter how abundant the pain
Or how intense the fatigue
Because their unknown elder
Sits upon obsidian and commands

And the great statues, standing ever so tall
Look down upon us and whimper
They feel our sorrow and fear
But they still watch us, making sure we don’t revolt
They are forced by their given nature to do so

As we say nothing they’ve grown stronger
As we sit and study our walls
The walls of hieroglyphs that we can barely read
Because of the absence of light, although we hold a torch
The endless blackness of bending halls, absorbing every lumen

Maybe we can find a way out
We could bring our torches together
And combine the lumens so we can escape
We could follow the obsidian walls
And turn the corners of the past

We could arrive at the opening
The blinding sunlight overwhelming our pupils
And walk into the warmth of freedom
We’d walk for days to find new stones
Slabs of our own obsidian to carve on

So one day we can arrive on desired trails
Ending at a peaceful death
Instead of one with regret and sorrow
One without fear
One that was carved happily, onto willful obsidian