At first we thought it was a game,
A tournament of winners and losers,
Where we, favoured by the gods,
And assured by our leaders,
Were destined to be the winners.
But now we know the truth.
There are no winners, only losers.
And the biggest losers are our leaders
Because they have lost their minds,
Their grasp on reality. Their dreams are sterile.
Yet daubed with blood: our blood,
And the blood of our enemies,
For us it’s too late The gods endure,
Survive by getting us to play their game,
Which never ends, and always ends
© 2016 Peter Young
Another 100-word piece written for the Creative Writing Group.