Attendees at the game of the gods,
come in three
First kinds are the lovers of wisdom,
the second are the lovers of honor and
the third are the lovers of gains.
Ah, now, now
There is a demon
of the old kind attempting me
my flagella and wipe my competitors from the stream
only race that counts,
first and only, no second place in this race
into the egg, where life, as we know it begins.
All I brought, my entire being
as a cellulate entity with a will to win, is absorbed into
Here, she perfects that which concerns me,
my will is done. I won.
Or did the others fail? Should I have slowed and let
another pierce this egg
and marvel at its works, while I am left useless forever?
Nay, or why would I retain this will to win?
Or this will to
calmly carry on, knowing now, this final phase in the course
of compleat being becoming,
slow and steady sets the pace,
up to now, k-pow, push meets shove and I win again,
recalling the joy when
I, the wiggly carrier of all that made me possible,
pass through your attentive staring, sorting egg-eye
osmotical magical silliness wells up in me.
I was chosen. Or formed to fit, this
lock meet for me, the key
in ever stories provoking old men to grow on.
Strange though it be, true,
Isaac Bashevis Singer inspires me, with words he left behind
for just this reason.
Shorter breaths, longer steps