Game of Throngs

 

A Middle Ages fantasy,
with dragons, kings and queens,
with magic and with alchemy,
and death in every scene,
has just begun its season eight,
the final one, they say.
The breathless viewers just can't wait
to see who dies today.

And yet I wonder who they be
who watch with rapt delight,
for just as far as eye can see,
a billion soldiers fight.
Who, then, is left to watch the show?
Can someone clarify?
But one thing true I surely know:
It usually won't be I.

Copyright ©2019, Paul H. Harder II

This poem is licensed under a Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0 License.