'Reality's like a deck of cards,'
said the stubborn Realist.
'How so?' asked the Idealist,
whose vision was far and wide.
'Well you see," continued the Realist,
willing not to stray far
from the literal truth of the matter.
'There are fifty-two cards and weeks in a year.'
'Aha,' proclaimed the Idealist,
'I think there should be
fifty-three weeks in a year,
because time is fleeting as it is.'
'But that won't change a thing,'
he replied as realistically as he could.
'You will not gain any extra time
by slicing and dicing the calendar.'
The Idealist pondered this in silence,
so the Realist continued his spiel.
'There are thirteen cards in each suit,
and of course thirteen new moons a year.'
'That's simply not enough moons!'
cried the Idealist in a fit.
The Realist let out a giant sigh,
wondering what the problem was now.
'We need thousands of new moons
all made out of cheese,
so that those who are hungry,
shall have something to eat.'
'My dear dreamer,' said the Realist,
his voice resolute in tone.
'Moons are not edible,
so sadly, many shall starve.'
'So we shall share our food then!'
screamed the Idealist,
because sharing seemed
to be the obvious solution.
'A noble fantasy,' whispered the Realist,
silencing the screamer.
'Although seventy percent are hungry,
twenty-nine percent simply won't share.'
A single tear then fell
from the Idealist's eye,
but the Realist couldn't stop now.
His conjecture was not yet complete.2
'Reality's most like a deck of cards,' he said,
his voice long free of cheer,
'Because a deck has four suits
that often trump each other.'
The Idealist covered his ears,
but the Realist's voice penetrated
his shaking fingers.
'And humans play every card in the deck.'
'First of all there's hearts,
but love, tolerance and peace never lasts long.
For instance, it is often corrupted by diamonds,
which represents possession in society.'4
'True love will always win!'
said the Idealist in a spurt of tears.
The Realist shook his head in disagreement,
but kept on going.
'Diamonds are conquered by spades,
which is an inverted heart of darkness,
and let's not forget clubs,
which evil needs to violently conquer possession and peace.' 6
The Idealist fell to his knees,
trembling at the horrible image.
'Love sometimes wins in the end, though,'
said the Realist with a straight face.
The Idealist looked up from his sorrowness,
as hope rekindled behind his weepy eyes.
'It's true,' reaffirmed the Realist.
'Hearts do trump them all from time to time.'
The Idealist grabbed at his knees,
and begged to hear more good things.
He should have known to not push his luck,
because a Realist deals in truth alone.
'Evil and love,
have a fickle relationship.
But there is one who will finally
settle the score between them.'
'Who will?' urged the Idealist,
who's vision was becoming shorter and near.
His mind was being melded
with horrors that chased his imagination away.
'The third party is technology,
but I shall call him the joker.
He will trump every card in Reality's deck,
until the card game of reality is finished forever.'8
After the Idealist let out a final whimper,
his face matched that of the Realist's.
It wasn't the face of indifference that he normally sported,
but that of a pessimist's frown.10
Honorable mention
Gold trophy winner
Silver trophy winner
Adding your comment:
at some point, I even wanted to be a casino dealer and dupe everyone 
