Whispers Of The Cue Poem by Bernard F. Asuncion

The green expanse, a velvet, silent field,
Where spheres of color, destiny concealed.
A gentle hum, the tavern's muted sound,
As players gather on this hallowed ground.

The cue stick poised, a whisper in the air,
A calculated strike, a moment to compare.
The white ball glides, a dancer on the green,
A subtle touch, a strategic scene.

The click and clack, a rhythmic, soft refrain,
As colored orbs, their ordered paths attain.
A geometric dance, of angles, spin, and grace,
Where skill and patience find their rightful place.

The pockets yawn, like hungry, waiting jaws,
To swallow spheres, and challenge nature's laws.
A delicate finesse, a master's steady hand,
To weave a web of strategy across the land.

The tension builds with every silent shot,
A game of focus where fortunes are begot.
The final strike, a triumph or defeat,
The billiards table where destinies meet.