Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Sep 2020
The game is old
The tokens made of ice
From under folds of hooded cloaks
Flash the eyes of mice
But every thousand years
A human player appears
And in his hands
Our fate
Like drops of blood
               on yellowed murine fangs
For it is said
By those long dead
That on the day he loses
We all melt away
We all melt away
Norman Crane
Written by
Norman Crane  Canada
Please log in to view and add comments on poems