We would play such wondrous games as infants,
Make-believe amusements, they prepared us for
A world that was, unfortunately, never to be,
So we invented more cruel versions to entertain,
Rekindling the ancient watch fires of our ancestors.
We recalled the blood of our predecessors’ primitive savagery,
And sang laughter that mocked laughter, evil, imaginary,
Tears failed to form when we should cry,
Death hesitated when we could die,
And though there were few who took no pleasure
In the barbarism of our immature games, we murdered
Their innocence and buggered their virtues,
Betraying them several life-times in a row
Simultaneously, long ago.
For those who refrained from play, there was no ritual
Left in life, no meaning,
Little expression remained suitable for the face,
The true identity was always hidden behind a mask of false indifference,
And there was but one utterance left,
The soul’s final scream, empty in the face of an imminent end.