Playing the Game

I am cashing-in my chips,
I have been at the table a
long time, playing a game
I cannot win.  The coloured
pile before me is all I can
get - it is time.  I fold
my cards, collect my chips,
stand up and walk away.

What are winnings anyhow
if there is no breath to live
if there is no body to move
if there is no time left for
the light of day.

My heart is a full vessel
which all the sour games in the
world cannot empty.  I will
take my love with me in
silence.  No-one ever saw it
through my impassive face.

I cannot win this
race of attrition, but I can
choose when to exit the
circuit and let the
game go on without me.
I have enough.

Winnings are what you make
them, and all of us can
only carry so much weight
of knowledge, of sight,
of hate and the world's
end.  My feet are my
message.  We all have the
choice to stop chasing
shadows on the wall
before it is too late.

previous poem

next poem