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.