The Game (updated Version)

The Game

The game is inside me,
the core of the soul.
A poisonous snake,
what slithers
‘round my
bones.

The puppeteer commands me,
every motion,
every breath.
On invisible strings of
adrenaline do make this
puppet curse.

From the echoes of my doings,
I conduct an orchestra, a play.
The choir’s melodious chorus screams,
to warm,
to fill,
to burn.

But now a blur of colors,
and all is hard to grasp.
I see the faces of long departed,
within wisps of winter stained floors.

I want to grasp the game inside
to pull it out,
to let me rest.

The Game

This thing is inside me,
the core of the soul.

This thing slithers
around my
bones.

This thing dangles me
on strings of
impulse, and
adrenaline.

This thing grips my
heart with
anticipation, and
vengeance, and
passion.

This thing wants me
to indulge in
the perfection, and
the beauty, and
the laughter, and
the slaughter.

I want to grasp this thing.

Conquest.

I wonder

I wonder,
If people wonder about
What other people wonder about?