What is "life"?
This life we live that some cosmic creation chose to give
Why do our hearts beat? Or is that just an illusion of death being cheat?
Why do our brains think? What makes us take paper and plop on it, drops of ink?
When you search for a purpose, you find the precipice of your "life"
Then your mind untangles the fabrics and spirals you into struggle and strife
In our end, we come to accept
promises kept, promises broke
relations we'd mend, and the last words we spoke
Everything we do, is the Illusion of Living