The Dying Place

The Dying Place

Fate plays with Death a game of chance
And uses weighted dice.
Choreographer of life’s brief dance
Laughs within the dying place.
The stakes, the dice, they are the same,
Blaze of glory or old age
Matters not to gods who rig the game.
Death collects the debt
Owed by those who cannot choose.
Brief life goes by too fast
For startled souls who always lose.
The stakes are bittersweet,
Once they’re born they start to die
And by the time they see
Finally with new-opened eyes
That love can be returned
The rattling cup of dice upends
Bones of ivory roll
Death his sharpened sickle tends
And harvests now a soul.

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