Perpetual check

The dark side of the moon
where ghosts of aborted dreams coolly await their next conduit;
the sharpest minds too can be found
silently reclining over a game (or two trillion).

True, they have their heads screwed on,
but they see nothing but numbers;
they smell only gunpowder;
cold is all they feel.

The screws are too tight.
yet they cracked smiles
when the last spark of mystery fizzled out; stepping outside of time,
they understood its passage was purely smoke and mirrors.

The idea of creation,
a sequence of unfolding events,
dissolved,
the paradigm swirled 'to a painting,
an unbroken rotation:
opening, middle, end games.