The Game

The Game is words,
tiny connected swirls,
leaping and diving,
reaching and beseeching.

Like coins tumbling from hidden passage,
at times they settle clumsily,
finding solace,
heads beaming skyward,
tails remaining down.

Early morning…

Words like swarming pollinators,
alight on blossoming thoughts,
waging purpose against time.

Often…

Like dried dead bees,
inert in motionless attic air,
detached from their daily flight,
lifeless wings retire,
life's perfect plan.

How alike…

The words now stored in steamer trunks,
the once vibrant parchment,
now but crinkled burial grounds,
faded memories and mistakes,
perhaps something ink wanted to say,
but the game did not.

Like players…

Time is spent glancing at symbols,
not unlike words,
occasionally lingering,
perhaps hearing whispered flight,
swirls finding connection,
your own wings-of-risk refusing to rest.

At times…

You stray from Game’s table,
where turned pages,
like cards face up,
reveal lows,
highs,
one's aces,
per chance.

Alas, understood…

Your wandering eyes
seek other magic rainbows,
flashing below three kings
that less than shiny bounty
amidst echoing trumpet and timpani.

For how else…

Might you know
back at Game’s table,
words portend nothing,
that they are not
save the unspoken,

Still to be found.

Strange…

Game feels with your hands
that jackpot of cascading glitter,
and the jester too smiles,
different from you,

Game senses the hands feel funny
signaling one should not

be stealing glances over shoulder,
across anxious fingers,
for all your believing currency
deserves patience.

And then…

There’s the time rest demands,
time to let resolve the dust motes
of settling repose,

After all…

Time's beacon remains forever alive
to be gathered,
swirled,
connected,
conjoined,
words at the table of life,
just the gambling stakes of...

The Game.