An irony

It's satire when I say that "choices" make a difference, They don't, and we're fickle, It's a paradox and we're vulnerable creatures, Drawing a line to a destination, expecting more In our heads only to realise that, There are no clear solutions. There are no clear outcomes. Assumptions upon assumptions made, For it to crumble, and for those "choices" To lead us unto despair, to regrets. "We're human and we're bound to make mistakes" they say- Again, it's a paradox really, It's an irony, A cycle we put ourselves through, A tragedy inside this void in our minds. Like glass we are embracing that fragility, Breaking and forever shattering, Be it by oneself or by someone else, We break and continue to shatter, Only to soon arrange them to where they once were, An art of ourselves.