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The ending of the game

The man sits alone at the table,
He desperatley tries to think of the words,
The words to give form to his feelings,
Life to his ideas and emotions,

Nothing will come, he feels tapped,
His mind is blank, his stare vacant,
Where so many words had once cluttered,
So many voices speaking that he could scarce quiet them,
Now there was calm and empty,

Frustration gripped him and a question formed,
Where had all the ideas gone?
Why had the voices left?
He had possessed so many stories,
He had had so much song and poetry in him,

But now the fire had died out,
The lights had been extinguished,
The door locked and closed forever,

Why had this happened to him?
What had he done wrong to deserve this?
What grievous sin committed was this punishment?

He was still so young, barely quarter through the journey,
And yet he felt old, somewhat of an octagenarian,
A man on the last leg of a grand existence,

Yet he feels now that no greatness awaits him,
There is no supreme destiny laid out for him,
Even modest mediocrity seems to elude him,

Why should people be denied their dreams,
Even those so low in stature,
He has had so many dreams and failed to realize them,
Fruition to him is just a word in a dictionary,

Maybe it was his apathy that led him here,
His inability to be assertive and decisive,
Perhaps it is the curse of his genius,
That he should be apt at so much,
And do so little with it,

And now, it is gone,
Morons who used to annoy him now impress him,
The simplicity of their lives and the ease,
The ease at which they obtain their goals,
Without ever being cognizant of the import of them,

He is now forever doomed, doomed to less than average,
Melancholy overtakes his soul and sucks at his will,
He is tired of the game which is life,
He has played it so poorly and lost so much,

The thought of its continuance nags his heart,
Why can't he just lie down and succumb,
Let the fatigue crash down on him like an anvil,
End the game on a grand scale,

At least something about him would be remebered,
They would talk about the flair,
The panache with which this player ended the game,
Something of the drama he'd never known,

Still, with death trying to seduce him,
He fights on for thought of her, she had always been there,
He might not win, but he will continue to play,
For her the struggle is worth it,

He may not make something of himself,
But he will not fail her,
Her friendship is a greater prize than life,
In a game far more important and just as old,

So he continues to struggle and kick,
To strike back at death at every turn,
Never allowing the ending of the game.

This poem is dedicated to you, Tiffany, for always being there, for always listening, for giving me reason to struggle through each day in the worst bouts with depression. I thank you more than I can ever express in mere words for all that you have done and am glad that I can once again speak with you daily.

June 1999

Copyright October 1999