Pointless Party Games

We crush the pebbles under sandaled feet
The dirt becomes a whisper in the past
to dwindle to the heart's unending beat
and leave predictions wondering, aghast.

The stars sit in their seat above our heads
with lives as tokens, tossing wooden dice
Philosophizing, lying in our beds
pretending there is room in paradise

directions circling endlessly like wind
but never blowing where the meter aims
No bets are placed on those who haven't sinned
And glory's patrons, only those with claim

There are no gods observing from their clouds
Dead six feet down, not looking to be proud.