My next challenge is from a colleague who chooses to remain anonymous. Why anonymous? Because he doesn't want anyone in his professional life (the guys who belong to the nice country clubs in town) to know he is into a game called Skyrim: Elder Scrolls.
As always, the Elder Scrolls Wiki was quite useful in my poem composition.
The Game of Quests
A dragon's always poised
to wreck everything,
and as I speak into your hagiography,
I choose to describe you
finagling a spear into the monster's wing
like a fork into dry meat.
When you begin your quest, you choose
what kind of creature to be,
for the sake of redeeming those
like and unlike you.
But you don't choose your soul.
You are finite, a seabird
who can't eat all the fish in the ocean.
Whatever language you learn,
the devil learned it first.
Every game has an author.
Don't bruise your tongue
The dragon will terrorize itself.
The world it haunts can only rob you
of your hero's hat.
Let the snow eat your enemies.
Give the snow your meat.
Interestingly, there is some gameplay truth in this poem. Sometimes you don't have to fight the dragons but wait for them to be killed by others. Also, the dragon shouts you learn is really just rediscovering an old dragon language. There does always seem to be a dragon about to wreck everything--in life and otherwise.
Though, of course, there aren't any spears in Skyrim.