Poetry

Chill Days, 22 (327.)

How many save rooms
have saved themselves for the hero,
how many upgrades
have felt down because they
sat unnoticed until the hero came along,
how many treasure chests
were plopped in random places
by unseen servants decades ago
only to sit, untarnished but unopened,
unneeded, until the hero found some keys,
how many swords had to be enchanted
to resist the inevitable rust
that eats away at all things
as they sat on fancy pedestals,
sculpted by a master artisan some centuries ago,
just waiting to be gripped by the chosen one,
how much time, how much space, how much empty
everything had to just wait, and wait,
and wait for that fucking call to adventure,
Press Start to Begin,
how many castles and fortresses and mad dungeons
had to use their entire budgets
to keep the goblins and orcs and skeletons occupied,
how many gold coins does it take to run
an antagonistic empire,
and which empires aren’t antagonistic,
if the hero fights the dark lord
is the hero not antagonizing that villain,
it’s so funny
how so many mighty games and stories
revolve around big empty places
that are there
just for some good fool to come along
and explore them.

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