You need the pieces to play these games,

_

If you wonder, that's all right,
but you seek to disassemble the thunder,
then you don't get the light

there's a flash down under
the water,
below the waves

green hues,
yellow

music hummed to you
from in between the staves,
there's a presence there,
personified,
glorious

its essence is
dark, dank and mysterious
like mold on old clothes

it's dangerous,

it isn't that shouldn't ask
questions,
it's the use of your irony
to iron your outfit
that disconcerts

that sets the players
to nervous twitches
and shaky hands,

that forges a black steel
of negative ions,
it only encourages liars
to keep lying
when there is nothing going on
but scions dying,
there is no zion left
to speak our minds

this hushes the audience
with shame

it stops the
song abruptly

and always destroys
any position
or move you make
in the game

it annihilates,
frustrates
and leaves me wanting

and now you're curious
why nobody
wants to play

you're a serial killer,
preaching dada,
and hating your daddy
for his obsessive-compulsive
disorder
of ordering you around

you're mad,
and we're kind
and kindred of sane
men and women,
the same few hundred
who invented
this game

who tried desperately
to explain
that it isn't all the same,
nor relative

but our words are in vain,
and have no effect upon your cause,
and because of this
we pause,
and reflect

that maybe it's time to leave,

we'll strike and bereave
in this funeral march
of gray skies,
rain and lightning strikes
twice
in the same place
and the third time
charms our hearts
as the clock hands strike
the hour,
it's late,

the pulse is quick,
and the face is frozen

this puzzle is
complete,
our skin is thicker than
your head,
our water shared
is our blood,
this game is over.

This is not a good bye.


.
-shadowchild
-------
Absorbing poem. Makes you think. Great to hear from you again, Shadowchild. It's becoming like Old Times = Ben