Poker Face

Black lacquer buttons provide the frame,

round voids holding infinity;

triangulated curves form the centermark with precision,

a delicate pin of sculpted blades pricking

all who dare wander too close;

fresh blood spills voluptuously into a velveteen bow,

the package complete.

Temptation incarnate offers a gruesome warning upon first glance,

if eyes were only willing to see.

Her spidery roots stretch below into deepest depths

running beneath bar and table,

winding through the hanging fog of lit cigar,

the billowing clouds of merriment;

all the while her expansive tendrils reach and wrap,

structural beams within her impenetrable fortress, stacked

poker chips— won, stolen, hoarded through time long past.

A timeless mystery, the embodiment of an age-old question,

evoking a fatal curiosity within the damned who cross her path.

Known of, but not known, there she remains

a statuesque fixture imbued with life’s breath—

cornered farthest from escape,

shrouded by specters of smoke, fleeting laughter,

hidden deep in shadow, obscured

by the mischievous tricks of candle light.