Casino Wordplay

My game is words,
tiny connected swirls
leaping and diving,
reaching and beseeching.

Like coins tumbling from hidden passage,
at times they settle clumsily,
finding solace,
heads beaming skyward,
tails remaining down.

Early morning…

Words like swarming pollinators,
alight on blossoming thoughts,
waging purpose against time.

Later…

Like dried dead bees,
inert in motionless attic air,
detached from their daily flight,
lifeless wings retire,
life's perfect plan.

How alike…

The words now stored in steamer trunks,
the once vibrant parchment
now but crinkled burial grounds,
faded memories and mistakes,
perhaps something ink wanted to say,
but I did not.

As players…

Time is spent
glancing at symbols,
not unlike words
occasionally lingering
perhaps hearing whispered flights,
swirls finding connection,
your wings refusing to rest.

At times…

You stray from my table,
where turned pages,
like cards face up,
reveal
lows,
highs,
one's aces,
per chance.

Alas understood…

Your wandering eyes
seek other magic rainbows,
flashing below three cherries,
that less than shiny bounty
amidst echoing trumpet and timpani.

For how else might you know
back at my table,
words portend nothing
they are not,
save the unspoken.

Strange…

I feel with your hands
that jackpot of cascading glitter,
and I to smile,
different from you.

I sense...

Well,
my hands feel funny,
signaling I should not be stealing glances.
over shoulder,
across anxious fingers,
all your believing currency
deserves patience.

Alas…

Time to rest,
time to let resolve
the dust motes
of settling repose.

After all,
Time's beacon
remains forever alight,
to be gathered,
swirled,
connected,
conjoined,
words at the table
becoming
high-stake images

Seeking a poet’s balance of purpose.