The Gamble


We fear the action of trusting.

Why would one form verdict without evidence

And flip a coin to determine fate of a life’s journey?

It is closing your eyes and spinning around in place,

Then pointing your finger and saying, “you.”

Isn’t any person we house faith in only random?

The very thought remains, we know not of a single intention-

We only find a man dealing cards at a green felted table

Holding lipstick stained glasses of half drunken scotch

And you are going all in on a hand of blackjack-

Sliding over every earned chip with much apprehension

To the house and his familiar smirk-

He most likely has a hand better than yours.

In trusting, we must let ourselves be violated,

Because only an uncomfortable intrusion has hands

To push us to the ledge that stands above the abyss

Of who we are.

What we fall into is another matter.


The End

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