Stacking the Deck

What is this existence where what we accept is not what there actually is?
Can there be a science nay a truth that is beyond our own senses, beyond
the edge of our imagination, that surpasses all our knowledge, all our
philosophy, magic, religion, perception that explodes into being not in
chaos but order like the formation of the smallest insignificant beauty
that occurs when water turns to moisture then freezes into a whisper
of being. Creating snowflakes is like stacking the deck.
What is life but a series of meetings, one moment from the next
like the collisions of leaves falling from the trees in wide swaths
only to be swept away in the universe's wind some of us clinging
for a time to another before spinning away in the happenstance
of dance, like some many twirlers spinning in and out of existence
until our journey is done, fading away into the rot of mulch
transforming ourselves into the food for trees.
Why does it matter so much that we are one way or another
that we find someone else to cling to, that what really matters
is each other, that love is not a lie, that truth is written only in books
that if you can see the light or feel the rain than you will
understand, you will comprehend that we should accept
the cards that we are dealt,
but not me, I am stacking the deck.