The soul gazes through clouds
no embodied thing can fathom
at its character sheet writ large:
"You mean I can start a level seven?"
Not too eager—awed, and humble.
Raphael assures the soul; Michael
warns of worth-inflation: "It will seem
a level five, at best."
Monstrous wings shrug beatifically.
The soul scribbles fire across the world,
mumbling "carry one, take off five, that gives..."
and winces. No, leave more for health,
though something must be sacrificed
for love. Money? Hardship? Only God
knew the perfect balance—unless the game was
His knowledge, past and future—
the rule books tap-danced around
that answer. Perhaps this time,
the soul thinks, it should be a mystic.
It looks up with begging eyes:
"Can't He just roll the dice?"
First published in Fantastique Unfettered, issue 4,
2011-12-15.
That magazine is gone, so this is the copy that’s left.
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