In troubled moments,
Heavy laden with doubt
And dripping with melancholy,
We take our insignificant places.
Everything is in place,
Order has been ensured.
Conformity marks the death
Of true and pure individuality.
As disposable plastic pawns,
Standing before our checkered past,
We become a trivial number
In a game of sudden death.
Every pawn has its use
Or else it is quickly discarded,
Thrown into a flaming pyre
Which burns but never consumes.