The Game

A poem about the game, play well little ones as the bridges are burning quick.

 Man is ignorant,

feeble in mind,

two headed,

behaviors unjustified.

 

 His ruse love,

perfectly content,

carving away,

at the heart not his own.

 

 The conception,

a masterpiece,

burrowed inside passion,

leaving you a victim of pleasure.

 

 Could it be,

the tree from which we ate,

abundant with fruit,

be thee origin of deciet.

 

 Birthing the serpent,

and the muse,

to spin,

an ensemble of lies.

Author's Note

Lets break the chain, deter the multitude of lies spun by wordsmiths of deciet. The game of truth begins at the fingertips of each victim.

Reviews

[Star Shaped Heart]

wordsmiths of deciet they are...

[J.]

Leaves one wondering and in deep thought. The game can be played on a myriad of levels. This part of the game leaves more questions than satiable answers.