Roulette Poem by Mark Heathcote

Despite our trivial, endeavours
life isn't a key broken, nor a glass shard-
turned to please; cut by millimetres.
Nor a jewel anyone should disregard
in-order, to pawn, repay debtors.

Neither is it a charming treasure either-
that keeps just one in warmth.
We're all as the wind on the ether-
one terse word transforms-
us into thunder a hellish transceiver.

The heart isn't a roulette wheel you spin
In the hope of making one man, smile.
the soul isn't a flower you nurture
or own disown or buttonhole pin-
in making, a connecting, merger.