A Cruel World

We are born to die, to cease being, living. Our purpose is to reach the final cessation Of breathing, of existing. But we fight on. When Death nears us on his skeletal horse, Or in the guise of a merciless, dark Angel, We scurry away, foolishly try to hide. Concealment there is none, yet we hope. Pray that our supplications shall be answered, That our lives shall be extended. For what? To suffer some more exquisite agony? Cruelty is our inheritance; kindness, a myth. Redemption is reserved for other blessed ones, Not for the likes of us damned to suffer. Yet… why then do we die to carry on living?