deepundergroundpoetry.com

Taken

Better to never touch than never be able to let go
Suppose that’s how it works, but how would he know?
He slowly lifts up his head and opens his eyes
To see there’s no life left to live, within the scope of this light

Here he can see that everyone’s gone, everyone left
The shadows give his mind room to play
They bring back the ones he needs to feel home
To make the beating in his chest hurt a little less
Complacency brings the warmth back to his hands
Just as they used to be before the cold came to embrace him
Hands that held so much, fought so many battles
Once had a dream, once served a purpose
But now they hang there, empty and aching
No strength left to fight, but is just as well
As there are no more battles left to lose
No burdens left to carry, no faces left to leave

His shoulders slump too low to hold up his head any longer
Corrugated roof finally gives underneath the rain
Curses this city and its apathetic elements
Automatons with hearts, but still without feeling
The bastard children of a father that abandoned them to their own demise
He hates them all as they keep walking, uncaring

Either a hamburger or a loaded gun would suffice
Maybe not; he almost enjoys feeling this unique
No one else hurts as much as he does
No one else ever had as much to lose as he did

Break in concentration; a strangely dressed man throws a card towards him
He knows it’s not trash as the man actually looked at him before he threw it
“Chance of a lifetime: One game, two resulting prizes.”

Ten o’clock and he’s waiting for the door to open
Finally, an oversized man lets him in and shows him where to sit
Grateful to be out of the wet, cold alleyway he forgets about the game
A man with a deck of cards sits down in front of him
Afterwards, four other men sit down at the table
Players, he assumes

The cards are dealt and the game begins
Seems impossible; he’s already holding two aces
Calls for three cards to replace the others
Astounded, he stares at his current hand
This additional ace makes three
One more go-around awards him with the last and final ace

He knows he’s won, but refuses to believe it’s real
Lays down the cards, the game is called in his favor
The strangely dressed man approaches him with the prizes
In his left hand he bares a .357 revolver with one bullet to spare
In his right, a check for two million dollars

He briefly basks in the opportunity to finally have relief
To finally afford and buy the freedom he’s so long dreamt of

Seems ironic; the final betrayal, this last, final thought
Is of nothing and no one, but the one he lost
And could not get back
Written by Results_May_Vary
Published
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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