The mask they wear, soldiers of yesterday
shimmers at dawn to fight for golden leaves
tomorrow’s game is re-arranged today
the spell he casts— the dark magician weaves.
Wearing their crimson clothes for much too long
pretentious smile behind a masquerade
precious crowns that can never do no wrong
bleeding wound ignored by the sword’s sharp blade.
This battle is just for the courageous
willing to sell their weary heart and soul
bravery and fear, they’re both contagious
wrong move sends them tumbling into the hole.
Maybe one day they’ll wake and look around
to see they’re lost and will never be found.
A Sonnet for #WhisperingNeds 110, ‘play the game’.
© annie scribes 2017
all rights reserved