Lucky

The coin glints gold in my palm.

He called it lucky as he died.

It's a visual trick, I tell myself,

A trompe l'oeil.

I find myself at the edge of the cliff,

Watching the bacchanalian waves below.

I cast the coin into the deep.

It shimmers sadly as it sinks,

But I dismiss my guilt as insanity.

And yet every time I pass the cliff,

Those wild blue waters tempt me.