The Gambler

his fate lies sealed in a deck of sleeping cards,
a circular trunk,
little fructured stools that sadly stare,
and that lonely cloud of smoke,
that alone hangs above,

and he knows the drill,
such be his loyalty unquestioned,
a long friend to these dens,
a chamber sitting never missed,

he knows when to light the cigar,
and when to put that filter off,
he knows when to kiss his beer,
and when to put on that screwed smile,

no prayers made,
just wishes to night lady luck,
and so the cards are given,
in search of the winning hand,
no maths class needed,
but a cunning mind,
that dances behind fear,
too much at stake,

in loss and in victory,
the gambler makes a vow..

©2011