Bitter Bliss: A Poetry Collection

Poker with the dead

I played poker with the dead,

always feeling, seeing red.

Rotten through to the very core,

knowing all I'll ever want is more.

I gambled away everything I had,

feeling like I had just gone bad.

I will strike it rich after this round,

don't worry, don't worry, I'll make it out.

But every time, more was lost,

I need to stop, but at what cost?

I've got better luck in my head,

but I've also got much less dread.

Dread of what will come next, 

knowing I am crushed from just one text.

Finally, yes, I win, I win!

My attempt shall not be counted a sin!

To hell I will go, but for a different reason, 

not just because I committed treason.

No, they hiss, you cannot go,

you are still in debt to us, what you owe

to us is your life. You must keep it,

for we will teach you how not to quit.

Hell is too small to make you suffer,

we want to see you hurt without a buffer.

An evil grin from the demons follows,

and I sob my way to the imperishable gallows.