Just a Game

I tried to find a path

through the forest of your lies,

but there were no tracks to guide me

past distortions,

truth-contortions,

tiny portions

of reality,

salted with fable dust.

My questions did not yield answers,

only fairy tales,
light as gas, like helium,
hydrogen,
oxygen,

making me giddy,
feeding the flames,

until the periodic table of untruth

fell apart

from lack of substance.

No bait from me could tempt you

to throw off your pale mask.

No words could reassure

that there is honor
among thieves.

And so I wandered

on the edge of sanity,

out-gambled,

out-classed,

a mere record for your files.

But in spite of the complex mess we made,

the pride and posturing,

the drawn knives,

in the dark,

carving each other up

with phony smiles,

still I wonder

late at night,
(and when the sun is high)

what little game it was we played,

and was it victory or tie?


This was written for The Sunday Whirl.