The End Game Poem by Dave SmithWhite

Underneath the rhythm, in a minor key,
A natural algorithm of embedded destiny.
It orchestrates the head and gut,
It feels so right and free;
As the music wheels in the exalted flight,
Of sheer discovery.

Beneath the surface of conscious thought,
A passive need conspires:
To project our sullen fear does nought,
To impede our base desires.
The certainty of confused ideas,
Of absurdist panic fraught,
With the aging patinas of our reclining years,
Like an ancient juggernaut.

Far below our beating hearts,
Are darker forces soothed.
Or crowd about in clouds of doubt,
And clog the bloods' remove.
The shooting star of mortal shock,
That ebbs the stabbing pain;
The smoothing of the statin block,
From within our lipid veins.

Beyond the myths of the mystic self,
A plaintive cry is heard:
A fond descent with declining health,
To a prospective death deferred.
To the limits of this poet's craft,
My bond is yet with words:
That insufficient, archaic art,
Might someday soar like birds.

Behind the masks of impotence,
We ask what might have been.
How robbed of choice is a poor defence,
When failure was the theme.
A cool and crimped insouciance,
Now dead flesh off the bone;
As self-regarding hopes are trashed -
In the end, we are all, alone.