Seventh shuffle rounds the bend but I won’t stop,
Afraid to splay the cards on purple silk to see just what they might portend. It doesn’t matter anyway – I can tell you what they say without looking.
There’s a wedding there – when I might have told you once but I’d have been wrong then. It lingers, a wisp of a smokey suggestion, a hickory hope that once was made of sterner stuff, before fire made it a figment of itself.
Sun and moon, we swirl around each other, suggesting stars sans stipulations, promises made unpreposterously, meaning each iota uttered, every irreverant irrationality. We are fiery licks of plasma lapping, we are faces downturned at every lover’s longing looks up at us.
There are coins clanging inconsistently, there’s the strain that therein brings. There is a strain, non-virulent, that turns aura into a harbinger, a cranium into a crockpot, that puts an ever-present pressure inside her both literally and proverbially: I try and keep a level head but stress, like hieroglyphics, is hard to deal with and anyone who tells you different is in denial.
Nothing makes me beg the question, I’m heeled here to help her heal but a month and more of a migraine’s surreal. And calling myself the Hanged Man would be too heavy-handed but it makes one beg the question of what the Master Plan is.
There came clamoring a chariot, Death was deviant deliberate, nothing came easily except the day we stopped play-acting and got specific.
And that fear I’m feeling – it’s not just of a ceasing shuffle – what if we’re a dream within a dream and this somehow pops the bubble?