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?
