The Game

My head spins with what it wants.
What does it want?
Eyes haze over unable to focus on unmatched trainers;
laces tied together in a triple knot.
A gloom transpires, a dizzying state of what should and what could;
I can no longer look down so stare up into the nothingness instead.
Crows line the street heads lowered like saddened old men.
They watch me stagger, lose my swagger, forget how to cry;
gargoyles of this modern utopia, they despise me.
I don’t want to look.
Please, don’t make me look!
The fogged nothingness disperses to another turgid somethingness.
A mellow sun rages an insipid war with an equally lethargic moon:
Is this night or day? I hear me cry.
The crows nod, but I don’t know at what.
A key rattles in a pocket of a coat that might be mine;
it feels heavy in my blood-streaked hands, slippy like grease,
dirty proof of the person I have not wanted to become.
So this is it I think, this is the life parentage bequeathed me.
Good. I’d rather fight than fall and I’m already through the door so the last laughs on me;
a crow passes me dinner: cooked crow.
The world outside the windows falls away, sheets tumbling
and I scream, for the game has sucked me in again.
I close my eyes, but they were already shut:
pick up a pen and write it out.
I have.
I haven’t.


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