The game, a poem by Ernesto G.

The children play in the dark
and dance and scream.
Blue and black, and gray,
because gray is the sword.
They know.
Time is theirs only momentarily.
The neighbors have heard them
and complain.
The parents are deaf or pretend to be.
Nothing is sacred anymore, someone says.
Not even this silence that we build
with our own failures and fears.
The children, they know;
they come and go.
They stay.
The neighbors, they know, too.
They drink coffee and wait.
They hide.
The children play in the dark.
Time is theirs now
and they play with it,
throw it up in the air,
kick it away
like a balloon.
The neighbors complain.
They play their own game.
Nothing is sacred anymore.

© Ernesto G.

6 thoughts on “The game, a poem by Ernesto G.

  1. I read it again this morning, and let me tell you, there is so much more in it that I would compare it with a good red wine: it gets better and richer with time. Where do you get the metaphors from…? Or like our old friend said: Do you even know what a metaphor is…? Hahahahaha!!!!!

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