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Gambled legacies etched upon shifting sands
blame the Sun for lost stakes fading into gusts.
Sirocco’s, mouth is covered by, Her, dealing hand.
Spun, sabulous teeth grit, Her, laughter’s thrusts.

Whilst chuckling, Sirocco, the windswept croupier, whispers,
“They bid to parch the Earth
and after losing cry.
Over unwinning, desert turf
below a blackjack’s Saharan sky.
Gravel stuck betwixt sticky fingers, toes
wryly smiles at their slotted inner-soles.
Beaches raise when caught in throats and eyes
flush, spluttered coughs mock orbs undry.
They blame Godly Ra that shuffled and ran them life.
And, wonder why we laugh at their burnt demise.”

The ‘they’ is you and I, we fickle shards
who have already begun to drip and melt.

Like, a mountain-peak’s deck of cards
that a scorching Summer hotly dealt.

Remember, that, The House of the Rising Sun, will always win.
When humanity plays a bested ace after the bets are in.

For we’ll set and settle up long before the House’s reign
can fall to absorb our vain, mortal, soaked disdain.

© poormansdreams

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