Left around. Swung around
the table for the cards you left,
in the gamble, the game
I remain to play.
I pray for you to stay
deep within, on the other side
of the playing field.
Lost sight. A goal rushed.
An avenue collapsed, to the cover-up
that fell short. We fell short
in our deceptions –
for how often are we with selection?
One card could be an ace
on this journey, throughout this race.
One face could be the trace
in our hours running on.
But we’re stuck in place.
A fallen tear blames gravity
for their crush.
A newly made scar shares sanctity
for a lover’s push
onto something pure.
With hearts won by queens,
and the jokers bonded for kings,
love is still at every step
risked, for falling flat.
But what love is not a gamble
for those eyes that could burn the cards
we pick up
as shards from our heart?
Modern Romanticism 