… The Game Is Ours

A man my age should better know:
But I do not. And so I go
About spare minutes spinning rhymes;
To jot them down, and post betimes.

I write: of heartache, and of loss;
Anomalies I come across;
The nonsense that infests my head
When first I’m getting out of bed;

Of love and aging; joy and woe;
Of how far, still, we have to go;
And many other things beside.
My interests are strange and wide.

What do I hope to do with this?
I hit sometimes, but often miss,
The targets that I’m aiming at:
But post in spite of all of that.

But all I really hope to gain?
To share my thoughts: the joy, the pain,
The emptiness I might go through,
In hopes that when you read it, too

You’ll nod your head, and say “I know”.
And recognize me, as you go,
As one like you, who does his best;
Who tries and sometimes fails the test

But still shows up – we’re all still here.
We speed along, we ride the curve,
And whether far away or near,
The game is ours, if we’ve
The nerve

Author: Beleaguered Servant

Owen "Beleaguered" Servant (a/k/a Sibelius Russell) writes poetry mostly, with an occasional pause to have a seizure.

5 thoughts on “… The Game Is Ours”

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