The Game

Dreadful slough of despond for the spirit of man,
Whose corpus delicti hides in boredom's commode,
Be he a paragon, or peasant of that land....
Essence, obsolesces...the prince becomes a toad.

Unnoticed a wrinkle, a minor facial change
At the edge of the eye when smiling, came to stay,
Residing, e'er humor had departed the exchange....
Eviction unpondered, distractions in the way.

Single line and then two, tiny trace, in a trice
Though absurd to dismiss, can't retard urgent growth,
Once trickle, soon river, far beyond all advice....
Youth's beauty has chosen the finite to betroth.

The spirit shrivels too, its vigor acts the same
As do the newly born bantling's puckered buttocks
After Time's relentless attention to the game...
Over Death's precipice, ravage life on its rocks.

--Fr. Veni di Morte



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