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Riddle by Damian Johnson (May, 2009)
Curtains raise, they take the stage,
mute actors that never age.
The clouds are cotton, the floor is pine,
the souls bound up in fine twine.
Crowds will cheer, the players dance,
flowing scene to scene as in a trance.
The world is perfect, they never whine,
for there's not a single will, save mine.
The play has ended, we take a bow,
but the viewers are the actors now.
When freed from decision, of thought and blame,
we'll walk to another drum just the same.
answer:
http://www.atagar.com/riddles/answer10.php
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