"Ontology in the Cereal Aisle"

I stood before the Bran and Flakes, 
Confronted by the Choice, 
And above, a fluorescent buzz, 
A small, Cartesian voice: 

'I think,' it whispered, 'therefore I
Am capable of crunch, 
Yet if I purchase Sugared Loops, 
Who dictates what I lunch? '

The Determinists insist the grain
Was chosen long ago; 
The bowl was set, the milk was poured
By forces I don't know.

Free will just as clever a myth
To sell us Rolled-Up Oats; 
We are but biological vessels
In tiny, floating boats.

I turned toward the Solipsist, 
Who sat upon the shelf; 
He said the Raisin Bran was real, 
But only to himself.

The Nihilist beside the Cheerio
Sighed at the cardboard box: 
'It matters not if it stays crisp, 
Or turns to soggy shocks.'

And so I bought the generic brand, 
A compromise of sorts-
A fleeting patch of daily warmth
For cold, internal courts.

I poured out milk, and raised my spoon, 
And watched the cosmic swill, 
And wondered if the prize inside
Was saved, or damned to hell.