I think this poem will confirm just how little I know about what it
means to be you.

The Game

Welcome to the mountain, son
Taste the wind and drink the rain
That falls upon the rocky cliff
To wet the weed that grows in vain.

Here you will find such freedom
You shall shiver with weight of it
The world stretched out before you
The battle bonfires newly lit

Stoked high with the golden spoils
Of another night's marauding
See below the common man
Ever grovelling, ceaseless plodding

Do they look up to see the peak?
Why should you even care?
Lest they cast their net upon you
In moral judgement to ensnare

The conscience of a liberal mind
That cavorts in daily whimsy
Round the tombstones of regret
Remorse and other feelings flimsy

But here's the secret, oh my son
The heart beats warm and soft
Within this icy cage of ribs
Passion soars to heights aloft

And though I'd soon deny the claim
I know love and I know shame
And life is not a game.


Penned by my hand on the 13th of Aeguary, in the year 397 AF.