The Game

A Poem by Leo Allen

How difficult I have found,
To discover another profound
Lover who cares genuinely
About who I am indefinitely.

Every day turned morrow,
Is time I've borrowed
In hopeless hoping
And "loveless" searching.

And maybe that's what the goal
Is in order to fill this infinite hole
With no definite purpose or way
Of knowing if it's your last day.

The pressure of fulfilling meaning
Within a certain time is seeming,
To me, to be someone's unfair aim
At creating a rather tragic game.