Cried the emphatic host
Of this outlandish spectacle,
A carnival of shameless entertainment,
It was just that.
Dressed in dark blue silhouetted stars
Sparkling in the limelight,
The host beckoned giddy contestants
Forward from long creeping shadows,
With a grin as vast as the spreading desert sands.
“Today we’ve a very special game,
All the way from vacant hills
Underneath a rising sun.
You’ve merely to sift through expired cephalopods
Till the mother of all is revealed.”
The contestants needed no second word,
No erratic flailing gesture,
Though, they did receive just that,
And they were off to a damp ring
Filled with a mound of deprived squid.
Greedily tossing them to and fro,
While frothing through rolled back eyes,
In a fever fueled frenzy.
Corpse after corpse pilled on top of the other,
Masters of the sea thrown about with nary a regard.
Then one contestant peculiarly observant,
Consumed by some great spreading guilt,
That starts as a burning pitiful coal
In grieving work consumed guts,
Caught the tired eye —
Of a poor tentacled beast,
Transporting him to a turbulent sea
Hiding gliding hunters in hazy waters,
A spreading sense of panic surfacing
In a massive shoal of life.
Slowly the squid are picked away,
By echoed laughter bouncing.
But the thrill of it all,
The will to survive,
The glancing orb of hope before a net descends —
“We have a winner!”
A particularly flesh endowed contestant
Now stood parading the lifeless statue
Of gold plated likeness,
Dead since the beginning, pointless, empty.
Its purveyor was jumping
With gelatinous joy, at the wonderful prize
That so many had been told
Was the epitome of living accomplishment,
That would bring the praise of countless others.
Yet, in the loser,
Still looking solemnly
At half closed eyes,
Dead now but once living,
A sense of pride in seeing the beauty
Of one who had no choice but to survive, and failed.
Great shame was felt
From the fresh laid mountain
Of proud ocean prowlers
Chucked about like discarded albums
Of distant longing memories.
As the curtain plummets,
Before thoughts become processed,
The last tear falls
To the unburdened din
Giving way to the darkness of the last call.