Play dead
I’ve received the handoff, apparently,
deep in my own territory,
lumbering towards daylight
but they’re after me.
It’s all a mistake!
I don’t want to be here
but there it is
deep in my belly.
A shaky glimpse
of that impossibly distant goal;
lurching forward
until I’m roughly brought down,
one shrill, sharp whistle
blowing the play dead.
O child of God, existence, Meher Baba said,
is a game God began on a whim.
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