A Master's Peace

 

The old master entered the arena

With a pocket full of aces

And carefully selected faces

That no hand could cover.

 

They say the maestro is a lover

His smirk is quick: calls every play.

Never blinking; no matter what the fray.

Never feared any hand guised as a bluff.

 

A young groundling with eyes full of stuff

Jude sat in, at the table of losing hands -

A shark Intending to make poker friends

Across the land of broken players.

 

The long night turned into prayers

As the novice was winning every pot.

Calling every bet - doubling like hangman’s knot;

As the horizon arose on Easter Sunday.

 

The darkened space brighten; a radiant display

And a new wizard stood to take the first chair’s place

Until the renaissance man announced quietly, “High ace

Royal diamond flush – too bad kid.”

 

Terror inflamed the rookie's bid.

His four aces went up in a flame.

As the old connoisseur proclaimed, “Kid, it’s a shame.

Arise and come back when you become an old hand.”

 

The maestro stood adjusting his grand

Cape by waving his cane with a flair

As the stone door rolled open to Sunday’s air

With songs of a hand’s resurrection; a losing redemption.