The Game

To ride the clocks and play the game of dreams
A living death of loving life, it seems
Only too real in the waking sleep
But we slothful waking may only peek
Into the windows of vibrating light
And observe with piercing, nay blinding sight
Fractured formulas of reality;
Created by players of the game, he
Who has taken the road in monastic
Devotion to notions of the cryptic.