Poetry of a Conlanger

Tuesday, December 13, 2005

Broken Games

If I had a closed box earlier,
Now I fear the puzzle pieces are spilled.
Watch me,
And feel free to laugh
As I scrabble to pick them up
Off the cold hardwood floor,
Knowing it’s a lost cause.

Watch it all,
As my card house tumbles down
And away in a tornado,
Never to be regained.
The last card to go is my ace of spades.

And last, there the pick-up sticks
Clatter to the floor,
A mockery of color.
Did they slip from my hand,
Or did I drop them?

*poet's note: and the irony of this poem is that it made more sense two days after I wrote it than it did while writing.


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