The Great Game

I am the young deer that has got out of the game –
Changing a lot after’, yet being all the same;
Might I have been lucky, not getting that shot,
Might my trophy on that wall had been my lost jackpot.

I had a young antler of a thousand great promise’ –
Brown eyes aglow and muscles of Adonis;
Might my eyes held the curse, within it a burning forest,
Might my quick moves bespoke I was an amorist.

I played the game in sage pose, looking through the forest –
Though, the wood deceived me, playing divine, modest;
Might the bait was too honest, letting run the game,
Might the wolfish hunter missed it, swallowing the shame.

I’ve become a shameful legend, a silent rumour –
At the table, the spice of some tasteless humour;
Saying: might we have been lucky, not getting that weak shot,
Might his trophy would be cursed, costing us a lot.

By the truth, he owns a noble, but wild venison –
Venomous while still vital, without comparison;
For sure, his antler’s mocking behind every tree you try to ignore,
While the forest itself is whispering his legendary lore.

Benyamin Bensalah

20.09.2018

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s