Your own: Throne or Cyclone?

Play is a toy,

A weapon,

An action of joy.

We hold it in our hands tight and it slips,

Through space it rips,

And births a kiss upon your lips.

It's the hourglass sand dropping gravity down

With levity and a frown.

The lit fuse 's a ruse,

We're here until we're not

No higher meaning

Living's a place aimed to rot.

A coincidental void,

Not the stuff from a tabloid;

Not the race

ran from

the turtle's or the hare's pace;

Void. Just empty space.

Of sorts.

With so much room,

You've got the chance to bloom,

No fear or regrets

When play, life begets

All life's creation

Is simple recreation.

It happens all the time.

It happens all the time!

With these words strung up in rhyme,

Or the face you pull when you eat a lime.

Yes, it's all art,

Even the fart that

smelled like

Apple tart, like.

It doesn't take a genius,

To not take it all so serious,

The lack of meaning and purpose,

Is not a hell-fueled furnace

Its your chance to make your own

Be it sat at a throne

Or in the eye of a cyclone.

See, I'm pulling at this thread

Because existential dread can be kept at bay

If you simply take a step back, and just play

Play,

Play.