He sat, checking his hand.
The numbers and colors,
Suddenly bled, and ran.
Mind confused, a whirling mess.
The Gambler takes his
Final test.
He folds his fan of cards, into
A small pile.
Then,shoves it away,
With a dignified smile.
His eyes glance, once to the left, then the right.
He feels the night has gone.
He senses the death card,has just been drawn.
He gently caresses his remaining chips.
Time to call it a night.
He broke even this time,
Walking away, wins him half
Of his fight.
Have no doubt, we’ll find him here, again, and again.
Hiding from his loneliness,
Running from his demons,
That plague his every night
-
Author:
Resa Bronstein (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: March 23rd, 2018 00:18
- Category: Sad
- Views: 25
- User favorite of this poem: Lauraš».
Offline)
Comments5
For my Dad.
Good emotive write. The trouble with gambling is that if you win you think that you can win again.
Written (so well) with such feeling.
A fine write, Resa!
I can envision your dad sitting at that table! It made me think of my friendās mom! She loved the slot machines in Vegas. She died as a poor woman...but a happy one!
~Laura~
You have really shown us the inside of his head Resa...... it must be such a tough addiction - well aren't they all I guess.
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