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The Game

A peculiar game unfolds—
No scores to tally,
No judges to call,
No victor, no defeat—
Still, the game persists,
Ceaseless, unending.

A ball dances—
Leaping from hand to hand,
Its path unknowable,
Its course unclaimed.
One silent witness watches,
Eyes tracing its erratic arc,
Watching, who holds this ball.

Only one rule governs:
No hand may hold the ball too long.
Unaware of this law,
The watcher follows its flight—
Rising, tumbling, veering,
Rolling into shadow or soaring high.

A silent distress grips the observer—
Helpless, ensnared, undone.
Time slips by, unnoticed,
As the ball, now weathered,
Changes shape, gathers dust,
Only to vanish—replaced anew.
The players remain, relentless.
The game carries on.
The watcher waits,
Lost amid the rhythm of motion,
A solitary soul,
Forever on the edge of knowing.

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