THE TOWER.
The beaded curtain shimmers and
crackles under your hesitant touch.
A steady voice beckons you in,
incense clouding your nose.
You are still unsure if you will
find veracity here.
THE MAGICIAN.
She's wrapped in silk,
long fingers moving as if dancing,
heavy-lidded eyes drinking you in.
She places the deck on the table,
an offering.
THE HIGH PRIESTESS.
She seems as if hung beneath the moon,
dim lighting bathing the backs of the cards.
You are believing more and more
that her stack holds scrolls of truth.
You reach for a card; for a moment
it seems warm to the touch.
THE ACE OF WANDS.
You listen in awe as she speaks,
unraveling your secrets like a knot.
Her words flow over you like lightning,
sending pinpricks down your spine.
Doubt is nothing more than
a crumb brushed off your shirt.
THE KNIGHT OF CUPS.
She lets your essence pour from her lips
and you wonder if she can hear your thoughts.
She can pick apart all the tangled wires
within you, paint a breathtaking mural
with the colors swirling in your blood.
THE TEN OF SWORDS.
She reminds you all things must end,
that too much insight
can become dangerous;
one might fold inwards, crumple
like thin paper.
She says, it is not necessary
to know your entire self,
lest you spoil the ending too soon
_____________
I do not own The Tarot Reader. If the original owner requests this piece to be taken down then I will, but this is a disclaimer
YOU ARE READING
Melancholia
RandomI wonder if my lineage is one of women shrinking, making space for the entrance of men into their lives, not knowing how to fill it back up once they leave. I have been taught accommodation. - Shrinking Women | Lily Myers || poetry and small stories...
