I rode the mid-night-mare
to the end of the light line
to principal certainty
to free will or won’t be.
Fields of the possible
sown with intention
shade the periphery;
our path lies between.
No house could hold it,
this terminal spotlight,
growing larger and farther
as we trample the shadows.
Pulsing and throbbing,
resolving beside us
the fields fade to white
as the spot fills our eyes.
Pairing mode activated.
Device connected.
Wiping cached dreams…
Initiate thought stream…
What’s worse than being picked last?
No one asked if you wanted to play.
Zero consents given.
Rules change every day.
Life sentence (full stop)
Instructions long lost.
The dungeon master has left the basement.
Got out of jail free.
Set the stakes, wrote the script,
laid the board, fled the scene.
Are you top hat or the iron?
The sword or the sheath?
A barbarian or a thief?
What color is your piece?
The object of the game
seems simply to breathe.
Dodge pain.
Consume pleasure.
Add players.
X.P.
It all seems too simple
as I remount my steed.
Is the object to discover
if the subject is me?
