THE ALWAYS CROOKED GAME
each new day
crashes in
with fresh foreboding,
its own brand of doom;
we can not take
advantage of the dawn
when the gallows
say it's hanging day
every factor
of that outside world
builds up the weight,
we are but ants
before its blindness
which drops upon us
grains of sand
which strike as boulders
so much dread,
so much terror,
we have fought the grey
for decades now
and can show nothing
for our efforts,
no gain attained,
no mark on history
what remains for us?
is there a tomorrow
of drastic change,
an unsuspected doorway
which opens into light?
or will there be more failure,
another length of chain
to drag on through the gloom?
what use is struggle
against the mundane pall?
their game is crooked,
stacked against us,
with odds too great
to tempt the play;
we've grow so weary here,
near unable to go on
- Brendan Tripp
04/16/2002
Copyright © 2002 by Brendan Tripp