I put my Belt upon my wall,
the cracked, white leather stained with tears,
and thought of the distance I'd had to fall,
to know the burden of all my fears.

Not a day goes by that some sunray shining,
upon that misbegotten token of glory gleams,
and reminds me in spite of my dreadful pining,
that I am still a man in the grip of my dreams.

And I think of the game to which my dear heart belongs,
Of the countless lights which have helped light the way,
and then my head rings with the most magic of songs;
Lo! the call of the Dream, from that first fateful day!

When first spoke my lonely lips the enchanted name,
when I held aloft my first ill-built nightmare of foam,
When suddenly I knew that my fate with this game,
forever fused, ever this road would I roam.

In spite of the shame I have brought to my head,
Ignoring the promises I never could keep,
while anguished shades share my bed,
The White Belt calls to me in my sleep.

"Your work is unfinished!" in sweet whisper cried,
the Dream in Her radiance beckons to me,
"It's just a damn game!" comes my tortured reply.
"Perhaps," says the Dream, "but not to thee."

And in spite of the mundane chains which encircle my life,
and draw a dreary veil over my once glamoured eye,
The Belt's call grows stronger, and keen as the knife,
the Dream cuts out the poison which tempts me to die.

I see now the illusions to which I've been led,
and the malice and spite which the Dark One did goad,
and I spit up the vitriol on which I've been fed,
and with an infant heart, turn around on my road.

And from its cold hook my old Belt I take,
and stand there, wistful, in the light of the moon,
and remembering the ease with which laughter I'd make,
I place It back on the peg, and whisper, "soon."

By Calvin Mac Druen, May 29, 1996