We play the game "Survival is the Goal"
offensively to wield a club of clout,
defensively so what we love may stay.
Late autumn falls again, the daylight's doled,
all women track the moon's circular route,
dense clouds drop rain to rinse out life's decay
and ferry nutrients deep into the soil.
Assume we then our axioms the same--
we're pawns unfortunately made of clay
aware the piece does not outlast its role
we cast for hope by throwing dice of doubt
to know we matter more than what we weigh,
our moral mud is plied to save the soul.
Yet we may choose the rules of mind with heart:
abiding those makes gods of us in play.
