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A good night’s sleep, well deserved after night’s labour,
The morning opens, embracing darkness in all fervour;
Eyelids open up, to darkness and daylight,
The day’s lovemaking with the night.

The sun penetrating the orifices on my drape,
Birthing psychedelic litter on the wall’s stone henge;
Brood to be sacrificed, by the father for the Feast,
To rise up in ranks to the High Seat.

The kid meanwhile played hide and seek,
With a catcher outside their clan, the fellow,
Static, and counting down so they could hide.
A winged catcher, wings folded, to close his eyes.

Time passed on, I was relishing the leisure,
Granted by the son of God millennia ago,
Having nothing to do all day, playing deference,
To the sacrifice of the sons while the Sun rode up;

The catcher was still there, oblivious to the end,
Of the game. Was he even part of the game?
Or was he just there taking a break, like his spectator?
The show where both players and spectators rest;

A closer look revealed, the catcher, connected to strands;
Strands of silver, a puppeteer was he? Controlling minions,
Working the obedient ones and punishing the rest.
The flutter of a feather sending ripples across the universe

Shivers among his slaves, I was looking at a lord I guess;
My assumptions were proved right, he moved;
And the strands did too; the flutter and the waving strands.
His valet came running to serve his master.

Service with servitude, the fellow kissed his master’s feet
Touched his feet, rolled him over in a massage, oh wait!
Before I knew what was happening, the tide turned;
The server became the served, quite literally.

Deity turned to delicacy, I watched my player devoured
Bit by bit; inch by inch; a lifeform turned to dust by another.
Not that I could stop it; saving one to starve other?
Long ago have I learnt that was the law of Nature.

Every life is predator or prey
And every life is predator and prey,
While i predate thrice every date,
Prey I am to somebody else’s prey.

A knock on my door and my landlady enters,
I tell her about the miracles of Nature, for her to retort,
That there’d be more Nature and less miracles,
If I was to clean my room once a day.