There’s a quiet desperation on your face,
Waiting for those numbers to spell a fortune.
That rigor mortis stance mocks tension;
You’re a monument to broken luck.
Necks outstretched scouring the board,
Eyes straining for the correct numerical alignment.
Tearing yourself apart from within,
Fanatical frenzy in the thrill of the win.
Yet the numbers get lost in the sea of digits,
Always off by a hairsbreadth.
Left floundering at the tide of misfortune,
Circling the drain of this self-sustained torture.
Tremors begin wracking your body,
You’re blazing through the internal mathematics.
Each tremulous shiver in the misplaced bet,
Combustion looms in the abyss of loss.
Life spans measured in the course of your wallet,
Dying slowly with each parasitic donation.
Selling off the organs of your dollar-bill soul,
Consumed voraciously in the gnawing hell of want.
Mere scraps of humanity remain to drag away,
Dejected in the public debacle of your moral bankruptcy.
Time to wander the streets in the cozy coma of dreams,
Soaring high on the winning numbers of gambling greed.
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