The Dead Game
The fear of death follows from the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time.
Mark Twain
In the whispering woods where shadows blend,
Where daylight lingers, but never can mend,
There lies a game, both cruel and grand,
Where fate is dealt by an unseen hand.
The rules are written in the dust of time,
In echoes of a forgotten rhyme,
Where players gather in spectral grace,
With hollow eyes and a timeless face.
They drift like whispers, lost in thought,
In a realm where life’s thread is fraught.
Each move a dance with the echoes of fear,
In a world where the living dare not appear.
The dice are bones, cold and bare,
Cast in a breath of the stagnant air.
Each roll tells tales of forgotten strife,
Of fractured dreams and suspended life.
The board is etched in shadow’s hue,
Where every step is a choice anew.
With each advance, the silence grows,
A melody of what no mortal knows.
And in this game, the dead do play,
In a never-ending twilight’s sway,
Seeking solace in the timeless maze,
Lost in the labyrinth of their own haze.
No victor crowns the endless night,
No champion claims the fading light.
For in this game, where death is the stake,
The only prize is the peace they forsake.
So tread with care where spirits roam,
In the realm where the dead call home.
For in their game of ghostly delight,
You might just find your own eternal night.
The Dead Game
In the flicker of twilight’s waning breath,
Where shadows lengthen and whisper death,
A game unfolds beneath the moon’s pale gaze,
Where fears take form in a spectral haze.
The board is set with a lover’s dread,
A canvas blank, but for the words unsaid.
Pieces of terror, delicate and frail,
Move in patterns of an ancient tale.
Each fear a figure, with silent screams,
Plays upon the threads of forgotten dreams.
The dice are whispers, secrets kept,
In the heart of a silence where memories slept.
One roll and darkness folds its shroud,
As phantoms of past anxieties crowd.
A haunted space where shadows grow,
And each move stirs what we’d rather not know.
The players are lost in their own deep wells,
Ensnared by their own silent spells.
They drift through realms of their deepest frights,
In a maze of echoes and eternal nights.
Victory is not in winning or loss,
But in the courage to face what’s crossed.
Each turn reveals the fears they chase,
In a labyrinth of their own dark space.
The dead game is a mirror of the soul,
Reflecting the fears we try to control.
No escape lies in the winning or the same,
But in the journey through our own dark game.
So tread with wisdom and courage bold,
Through fears that haunt and stories told.
For in the heart of this eerie claim,
We confront the shadows of The Dead Game.
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