The dream of Midas beckons |
From the dusty baize
The caverns of hidden stone
Of wealth beyond dreams of avarice
Of solitaire rewarded in spades
Calling sweetly, madly, sirens of possibility drift
Beautiful as endless room service
Discordant, harsh caws of disaster crush sweet airs
With punctuations of Hell, acrid and sour
Rust-red iron mist overwhelms the odalisque perfumes
Of sporting idylls
It's dust and wind and fierce flesh in this heat
Where wealth is another breath
Another wisp of good will
Is treasure to be weighed in paltry intangibles that cannot be savoured except in memory?
Is gain to turn and find the shadows at one's back both anchoring and elevating beyond a single reach?
Is wealth poured into the heart, rather than the pocket?
Oh Mother, where now is my motherlode?
My smile is all that remains to show I was once a man of means.
The fool in the looking glass will not stop grinning.