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Poem



The painted disc, a vibrant blur,
A promise held in clicking sound.
Each wedge a hope, a soft demur,
Where chance and destiny are bound.

What unseen hand compels the turn?
What forces guide the halting click?
A lesson that we slowly learn,
Our grip on future, frail and slick.

For every prize, a shadow waits,
A near miss whispered in the air.
The joy elates, the loss frustrates,
A microcosm of all we bear.

We pin our dreams on numbered slots,
A fleeting glimpse of what might be.
Ignoring all the tangled knots,
Of effort, skill, and destiny.

The cheering crowd, a hopeful hum,
Reflects the yearning deep inside.
To overcome what may become,
To conquer fate, however tied.

Yet when the final arrow stills,
And fortune's face is plain to see,
Do we accept the bitter pills,
Or rail against what has to be?

The wheel spins on, a constant truth,
That life's rewards are not our own.
A blend of striving, age, and youth,
On seeds of randomness are sown.

So watch it turn, with open eyes,
This ancient dance of give and take.
For in its spin, a wisdom lies,
About the chances that we make.

©bfa050125

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