Oh, how he walks across the room!
The air, the space—every breath he owns.
Have you seen the way his eyes roll
Every time someone breathes on his own?

No, he is not a duke, a lord, or a king.
He works for a living, to make the ends meet.
He knows his game, or so he thinks.
Numbers roll and announce his win.

People take a different lane,
Every time he walks, momentum of whispers gain.
While he thinks it’s a victory cheer,
Seldom does he know, it’s a warning cry to clear.

To my dear heart, I often say,
When years will go by, how will the wind sway?
In the dance of pride and fortune’s embrace,
Whither shall victories in games carry him in grace?