Who cares for the meaning

Who cares much for the meaning anymore, 

The ellipses at the end of it all always leaves the protagonist wanting more,

And no omnipotent observer will keep track of the motifs, 

No audience will clap and roar with enthusiasm, 

So who really cares for the syntax when life is ruled by an amateurs choreography, 

The jumbled pieces haphazardly mashed together in a wholly unique mosaic,

No other quite the same, 

So who needs there to be a meaning to it all anyway? 

Whose approval do we seek for the simple act of living when our own is so easily within reach? 

Miring under the presupposition that it all matters come curtain call,

Our hearts become our penance upon the alter of their gazes, 

Our faults surreptitiously masked by garnets and glitter best left for the best of days, 

And in the mirror we pull at skin and push in lumps, 

To fit the mold of a different plays protagonist.