01 December 2018

Postcard 148

You are a stampede of feelings
Every element bites at you
Drawn like a card
quartered like a long year
Each degree of sun overcomes specifically
a goddamned stack of merciless nows
Is it those old solar demons trample you --
                          primal shadows of youth?
No. Its your daemon team who's hooves beat dust
                                     in ecstasy and pain

Still, you sit in room longing to lay
down beneath a dozen pairs of caring hands
How awkward you read your skin's own glyphs
Clay polished silver, arms stretched and bent
All the cards seem misprint and
read best like art in cave-light
Each symbol pulls at you like sharp thread
from each point your body, head, your heart
And you are a cascade of fingers on a taut stringed harp
You are confounded -- inside out
In truth, you are body-holding sky
the sun, your beating heart

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