Playthings for the Creator

Who am I but paradox in motion?
Who am I but a collection of emotion?
Looking at what exists on the inside
What does it mean to be alive?
We may figure it out sooner or later
That we are playthings for the creator
Marionettes of flesh and blood
Not always worthy of divine love
I can’t help but contemplate this existence
Do my ramblings make any difference?
To the fabric of time
To the cycle of life
To the visions in my mind
Touching skin feels so real
So much the senses reveal
Yet we don’t know how to step outside
Exit the boundaries of our minds
To existence without boundaries
Where souls do as they please
We trap ourselves with petty laws
A futile effort to appease the gods
Since we are but a bizarre experiment
Elaborate playthings