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 Game  (7 ratings)by Rick Wolfe Game "Death, a wonderous game," said he. "To die, to become naught but dust. To die, forever gone, twould be fine you see I say, let it come, death or bust!" A strange old man was he. Dapper, a gentleman I daresay. Yet oh so strange this be. Never have they been willing, those I wouldst slay And in so killing. Bid them silently, good day. I know not what to make of this man. A quandry most vexing. His dreams from which screaming I ran. His visions most perplexing. I find myself, unblooded sword in hand. Standing, musing, of things best left unsaid. This man who stands tall before me. I can now most clearly see. A man of noble bearing. At whom death is now staring. Upon the wind, my fell master calls. And so, in a heartbeat, my blade quickly falls. The still proud head, tumbles to the ground. And rolls away, with but a whisper of sound. And as I walk away, then run. His words unto me They haunt me you see. For he whispered, "I forgive thee son."
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