POCKET OF DESIRE: THE STRICKER'S CLAIM

Duel; take aim, break; ricochet.

Was a shot wasted? No, in vain.

A smile on his face with obsession in his eyes,

Possession in his veins, hatred lied in sight?

With the striker’s gentle kiss, a carrom clash commenced,

Only for the queen! Carrom men tensed.

Was winning the aim or pocketing the queen?

The one with the queen meant a win indeed.

Foul, he growled; to the opponent – scowled.

“You’re mine, I own you,” he looked at me and avowed.

His hand on his chin, prowling the board,

His grin widened, “One shot away, darling; you belong to me.”

Only pocketing was left, I was owned,

Lost the identity — a queen love sold.

Lick shot in a flick, victory screaming within him,

“Told you, I own you, don’t be mean, my love. Again?”

A decision was made, scores showed update.

Between the pockets and blocks, my destiny carved this date!

Hunger deceived or power consumed,

Or was I fluctuating between the two?