Losing at love is like dying in a video game;
I have an infinite void of choices to make.
Whether a Bowser or a Koopa Troopa,
I can replay the same mistake.
Find a new brick pathway to heartbreak;
no one will complain.
If I'm in the mood I can level up,
button smash,
learn the moves,
work on my stats.
Caution:
the outcome is likely the same.
I can even find a check point,
pause for a suitable save.
Find a mystery box,
take a wrong turn,
discover extra lives
and early graves.
I can drool over a cool,
new character
with unknown abilities.
Avoid the chain chomps
of matrimony, and
dodge the normal bloopers
to soar high on a flag to the next stage.
But when the world dulls,
the action lulls,
and the joystick won't behave,
I have options:
fall into a pit of lava,
stand under a thwomp,
pick a path filled with bob-bombs,
fail to make a foot stomp,
or let time run out,
suicide the situation,
and forget the whole thing.
Win or lose,
no one boos because
saving the princess isn't really the aim.
©2023 | K. Hartless
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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