odds

They say I’m cold
but I’m just old
not easily moved
by beats oversold
I bide my time
and hold out to find
the rhythm to make me
shake and unwind
to a place and time
where nothing matters

Rats scurry by
the idle chatter
of plans laid in the dark
only to shatter
when the morning comes

But I’m the keeper of secrets
the stasher of lies
I hold them neatly folded
pressed tight to my side

Though they be small
their weight is immense
they pull on my skin
and on my bones
until I hone my senses
enough to remember
only bets against the odds
count as a win

Though I thought
my heart would splinter
seems I’ve made it
through winter
still I’m only tinkering
with the thought
of letting go

So I place my chips
on red again
though everything is black
and nothing seems
even to hint
of colours coming back

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