Ancient words spoke in syllables unknown
vortex about me in forms of growing smoke.
Ghosts of times passed swirl about,
their eyes locked to mine and mouths wide,
tethered to me as a center point.

Life must be chosen once per day
but the reaper must only make one deft move.
The smoke continues to rise and tighten,
the spirits muted howls fade in and out,
and I cough.

I choke and cough as the smoke fills my lungs,
desperately trying to expel but I fall.
There I lay, wheezing and hacking,
A rejection, a fight, a resistance,
longing for the clean air that I
did not believe until it was gone.

My throat burns dry and bruised,
but the smoke does not stop its growth
and the chants grow louder still,
filling my mind and shaking my skull.

The smoke fills my lungs to capacity and
I call out but it comes as another cough
and another after, again and once more,
my eyes watering and hands gripping chest,
until at last I gasp one rattling inhale
and Fade to black.

The Quest

Oft I ponder the quest that I have been delivered upon

Whilst laying in the midst of a field of straw

Mine eyes gazing in the sky with it’s hews of gold

Not far from here lies the battlefield

Forthwith there will be bloodshed and mayhem

But as I rest my weary bones upon the coolest of thine earth

Mind over matter is what I behest

Is it the goal to capture the king as in a game of chess

Am I the pawn sent out earliest to set the tone

For the rest of the game to follow

Or be the fortunate survivor having played a skilled match

My protector some unknown hand

Guiding my way whilst I traverse through an army ahead

Each step a calculated risk that could end in my demise

Somehow out of my control yet each of my moves

Dictating where this may all end

Devout to the King

But looking to create a new Queen

That will carry on the lineage I am here to shield

Thus I start my day

Andreas Simic©

God is the game master
I am the Chess player
I play the King and just like anybody else
I too am afraid to loose my most valuable piece - my queen.

She taught me, a demon, two things...
How to smile and how to cry.

I’m a puppeteer, I pull the strings.
Once I catch you, you are forever my doll.
You can hide it, you can even fight it, but I’ll always be able to make you do things.
You will always follow my protocol.

You may think you have a choice.
You may think you have free will.
But you will follow every word of my passive voice.
And I’ll use you to get my thrill.

If you ever leave, I’ll leave a string hanging so I can tug on it when you’re gone.
You may think that you’re safe.
But in the end you’re just my little pawn.
The path Is set for you and you cannot strafe.

For I am a puppeteer and I must confess.
I am the best at this game I call chess.

The ancient word for hesitation.
Twisting and turning in your three-dimensional mind like a maze
till the ball of string you carry gets all tangled up.

Perhaps I should be more decisive...
Maybe I should me more conclusive...
Make up my mind like a bed and then,
maybe I should lay in it. Assert myself.
Treat life like a chess board.

Make my moves through my own devices
and not rely on the intervention of higher forces,
or guardian spirits to pilot my choices,
or sit uncomfortably on fences waiting for the fates
To push me either side.

Tweogan.
It is reassuring to know it's an age old phenomenon.
That even our ancestors were predisposed to
rock to and fro in fevers of doubt and indecision.
That our ancestors would dabble in-between conscientious visions;
caught in anxious possibilities and cautious projections.

The hidden threads of back and forth thought
all forgotten by hindsight's way of portraying
a seamless fluidity to the embroidery of life.