Ode to the Gambler’s Hope

What is hope but a glorified goal,
a wager cast in the dark of the soul?
We stack our dreams like chips on the felt,
bet the house on the hand we’re dealt.

Oh, the clatter of fate’s dice in flight,
the breathless hush of the coming light—
will the wheel stop where our hearts have spun,
or will the dawn mock the bets we’ve won?

We are gamblers all, with our futures laid,
on the turn of a card, on the prayers we’ve prayed.
The dealer’s hand is cold, unyielding, true,
yet still we double down on the dreams we knew.

For hope is the house, and the house always wins,
but oh, how we love the spin it begins—
the rush, the risk, the glorious fall,
the all-or-nothing of giving our all.

So let the stakes rise, let the pot overflow,
with the currency of hearts and the things we know.
What is hope but a glorified goal?
A bet on the light, when the night takes its toll.