In fractured light, the players move, unseen,
Through webs of choice, where silent forces lean.
Each calculating hand, a ghostly trace,
Through algorithms' cold, unmeasured space.
We walk in games, where nothing stays the same,
A restless dance of strategies and blame.
The Nash equilibrium, sought and still unfound,
Lies hidden in the code, beneath the ground.
Here, every path is split by silent fate,
Where choices linger long, then dissipate.
The rules are fixed, the patterns intertwined,
Yet all is flux within the player's mind.
Time moves, indifferent, with numbers on its back,
In every auction's bid, a silent crack.
The game unfolds, a whisper in the dark,
Where reason stumbles, grasping for the mark.
What is the value, then, of every move?
In quiet numbers, seeking to remove
The veil of chance, of chaos, and of play—
Computing all that thought cannot convey.
And still they search, these figures in the shade,
Through networks vast, where futures are unmade.
In games of risk, and power's quiet flow,
They find what every player fears to know:
That all their choices, all their schemes and art,
Are bound by numbers from the very start.