Shell Game
In the lottery of life
you get your man or get your wife;
though with strife life's sometimes rife,
and pain cuts you like a knife.
Sadly there's no warrantee
no assurances, no guarantees
of what the after life will be,
for none can claim true expertise.
Listen while the angel sing.
A heaven is for many things.
It's faith and hope, the angel wing
of calm content that promise brings.
Fear inspires and pain impels;
if there's a hell, it's just as well
life persists and hope compels.
The dead might know but never tell.
Why ever did we all begin
to play this game of counting sins?
For it's a game that none can win
so full of wistful might have beens.
With each cautious step you take
you're ridden by the past's mistakes.
Afraid of more mistakes you'll make
while playing for the highest stakes.
Angel, devil, heaven or hell
faith and fear have served these well.
I only wish that I could tell
who's the cup and who's the shell.
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I'll make no apology.
I'm merely writing what I see.
Though possibly you'll disagree;
this is what freedom means to me.
By blind poet
© 2008 blind poet
(All rights reserved)
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