Her to Him - The Neat Hand of Poker

Not a happy love tale.

 I want to reflect on all that is perturbing and past,

The words falter as I am alone at long last.

I turn to music to form the thoughts in my mind,

But I have �"

Words to make me strong,

Raise this spiced rum in a passionate drinking song.

Words to make me passionate -

Words to wipe out my passiveness.

We really failed to be compassionate,

As the words eradicate the savageness,

Of the memories of us.

I tell myself to be ashamed of my aggression,

Vices and insecurities �"

But I’ll be the first to knock upon the door of confession,

And laugh in the face of your hypocrisy.

His confident disposition;

Why does he make a fool of me?

I see the poker in him.

Let the games begin:

I aim my judgemental dismissal,

I could give him a slap.

Let the river unfold:

I attempt to speak to him, the beholden Banshee �"

A hysterical mental attitude to behold.

Bursting to the brim with,

The oozing confidence of the dim.

(Bluff. Bluff. Bluff.)

It comes out a little sordid and tongue-tied,

I take his sneer in my stride,

As he flashes that smug look,

All in! I call out on this double!

My faithful dogma,

My own little prayer book.

“I’ll buy you a drink sometime,”

My eyes light up like blackened sunshine.

He read my mind.

Lifting the cross adorning my neck,

It fell back down with a damning thump.

“But…but…” My throat gargles.

“Don’t you know I’ve completely lost my marbles?”

He looks at me,

Yes, boring into my forehead,

As I cannot quite meet his eye.

I couldn’t help but think:

‘This will end for me...’

My soul, like a mirror:

I keep smashing that b*****d accidentally,

As my fate fogs, never to become clearer,

As I struggle mentally,

I am tainted with so many years of bad luck.

Do I have any pride, dignity and grace left?

I am imprisoned in this iron cage -

A jailed soul that weighs me down.