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a poem written by a "gamer" unknown author

IT IS CALLED A GAME....

A face for each encounter is tied upon a chain.
A necklace made of masks is used to play the game.
Every word is a secret.
They’ve all been well rehearsed.
Some are more misleading.
I know which ones are worse.

We are scrupled players,
In an exhibition we call life.
Some know their ambitions are attained by playing right.
Sadness forms the solitude which prevents someone’s success.
We evolve at our pace, to change, or to regress.

Some compound their inhibitions because they say they can’t.
While others build great wonders because they work like ants.
A few of us realize the world hangs by just a thread.
We study conservation as we live among the dead.

I know there is recourse since we all begin the same.
We lose ourselves within our lives as we play the game.
Still, I can’t help but wonder at how adaptable we become,
When we feel the gnawing hunger forcing us to run.

NOTE;

This was written by someone named "a gamer" and listed as author unknown...dated January,2005...