Patrick could not fold. He shrugged. His bad hand
attracted undue attention. He thought
that if he could bluff his way to a win...
religion, prayer, and God...his life felt bland;
inside a casino, he felt he lost
control of abiding in faith. His lot...
king high, no pair, nought to bet on but sin,
could he win the pot with just a face card,
only the devil knew what was at cost,
unless his opponents saw through his bluff,
leave alone the dealer, who watched each game,
dealt each hand with her eyes towards the rough,
nothing ventured, nothing granted, the flame
of desire burns a fire, never a bard
to sing without a lyre, to face hard luck,
face the truth and not fold, not give in, cold
orbits, steel blue eyes gaze and mesmerize,
little did Patrick know his eyes could suck
distracted thoughts in with a glance, to think.
He could not imagine how others bold
enough to stare back in terror would rise,
shaken to see their life pass in a glance,
how could he know his eyes made others blink,
real horrorshow to sit across and see
under his brows the flames of hell await,
given Patrick was a novice, a bee
going from one casino to his fate
each time he left, win or lose, he felt chance
dance upon the graves of his enemies.
He held a bad hand, king high, but all hearts,
in fact, he didn't know what a straight flush
signified in poker, he sailed the seas
bent out of shape by his past, could it last
as he thought, he fought back tears, he felt darts
deliver a blow like a fist, his brush
handed death a steel-eyed glance, the distance
attributed to his age, he was cast
notably as an observer, as bees
danced, he played his hand without assistance.
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