What Are We Of? (Part 1)

What Are We Of?(Part 1)-Lord Cantalo The sum of all my parts is a mind that's not my own.And yet I am more me than I will ever be.The void grows, but no one knows.Before existence, I was. And yet I still am.And thus will be as such. What is time when time grows young?And the world grows old with it?The cup runneth as we all dry up.And the end outdoes eternity. What once was has yet to be and the circle becomes a knot.The tighter it grows, the looser we reign as it all burns up.Life is while Death has yet to roam.And the end draws near while we lull on the throne. Has the end been while the beginning was but a pup?Has time reached its demise while the Ancients still roam?What does the weaker minds think of the minds that see beyond?How can we be when we are already gone? This power that resides inside…It hurts the best.Fueled by a mind that knows not the rest.And prays for the end to never come. Death is new, but nothing has changed.What is taught is already learned. The sword, it yearns.The soul, it burns.The power, it grows.The knowledge, it shows. Pain teaches what the weak must learn.And the strong teach what the weak yearn. Yet what have we learned?Yet what have we learned. When the time comes, what can we say for ourselves?What can we say for others?What does the end ask for?What does the beginning need? How do we know the time has come?How do we know it’s not too late? What of the ones beneath us all?Do we rule from above?Or are we our own slaves? Minds that toil within ourselves.Power that boils within us all. Death clings near.While Life is pushed away. We create to live.Live to create. But for what reason?To what end? What of the pieces we leave behind?Our souls, willingly split into many.Lives spread across existence. Worlds built.Worlds destroyed.Lives ripped apart for what?To feel?To feel what?A child’s first breath?The death of another?To feel jubilation as countless bow at your feet?The feeling of loneliness as mortal life fades away? To build lives for your pleasure.To slaughter for more. Life. And Death.Mere games on the Board of Existence.Yet more powerful than any other piece. The Game is played, but the Rules are bent.Bent by the ones who only see themselves.But lives for others. Yet. What are the rules?Who set them? And who says we have to play? 

This poem is about: 


Lord Cantalo

You can see the written format properly done on my website: LordCantalo.space

Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.


If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741