Are we, we?

It seems mortality is an option we have now;
tossed between hands, held behind a back.
Two fists with two alternative endings.
Luck of the draw, you call heads
in hopes of seeing Licolns face.
In one hand you have life;
disease, poverty, wars, crime.
A grim chance of survival
past your expiration date.
In the other hand you have nothing;
a free world of possibilities to explore
and wander, a whole life of luck
and love, success and fuffilled dreams.
Good luck picking the right hand, child.

This is your world, your dimension, your story.
You rule it, live it, tell it
under muttered breath as the stars watch you.
This is our option, a choice we have.
We always end up picking the wrong one,
no matter who you are.
Naive children, infants, starry eyed
and overwhelmed. We always pick the wrong hand.

I broke free of my shell and emerged into your world,

thrown into your rampant chaos without warning or advice.

Two fits were held before me, and, trying to control

my movements and figure out how this world works,

my tiny little finger chose a hand.

Which one is it? Mortality or regular, human life?

I don't know. I'm too young perhaps,

or perhaps I am overlooking a major component

of this fate game.

I think too much.