The Game
A room shrouded in a thick curtain of smoke
Conceals a blue man, a red man, and a purple man as they sit in the round at a modern table
And flick cards between their fingers in a stalemate.
The moment is pregnant with anticipation,
The steady flaking of cigar ash burning little stars into the cheap dark velvet table-top.
There the petrified sit,
Abled only through the gnashing of their teeth against the bitterness.
The pursuit is at a impasse,
and the treaties of man momentarily hold face.
These are the trenches. Here lie the stalwart and the un-blossomed;
Brimming as they teeter on the edge
and all at once are stilled by the threat of spilling over.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
