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Tarot Diva – The Three of Swords

You’ve dealt me a couple cards,

I’ll consider the Three of Swords,

and shuffle you back.

You poked and bled dry,

nothing was left to seep the tissue papered membrane.

Pierce today,

discover words,

not blood.

Metaphors gather clotting wounds.

My heart is vast,

excessive in love,

keeps circulation quick and fast.

The doctor, handsome with his white coat warned me,

you need to calm down.

But Wands hold firm in their grip,

my heart full, fluid, racing.

Is that a crow’s foot you’ve carved beneath my eye with your sword?

I’ll rebuff surgeons, their needles dripping  with botox.

Been stabbed enough,

display my war wounds proudly.

The Four of Swords brings rest restored,

i’ll sleep soundly as a cat curled in sunlight.

Let sleeping pussies lie,

feline talons clasp tighter than swords.

Suffocate, cling, won’t let go,

spy the dismembered mouse beside my bed?

Slip no daggers beneath sleeping pillows of those I love,

they are not versed in the game.

Know not what they hold.

Slice a blood orange at sunrise,

not fleshy organs.

Juicing my heart leaves nothing but a glass of pulp.

Can’t pierce a structure you cannot imagine.

Those who seek form, not heart, remain blind.

I’m all heart.

Born of moon,

a spasmodic eclipse.

No man’s daughter.

The moon nursed and taught me well.

Dodging tornadoes, burrowed deep inside dirt spider chambers.

Walked wooded paths of forest fiends,

protected by song.

Escaped blue eyed monsters tugging at my bed sheets.

Braid my dna as I see fit,

weaving strands of splendid helix.

Trash bin contains soiled sequence,

spiraling downward.

Splintered box holds a braided noose,

dry, aged and withered.

It tried to snap my slim neck.

Peek everyday

to recognize if it should swing free again.

Washington Square Park’s potter’s field has playgrounds and hot dog vendors,

on top.

The hanging tree remains.

Lick my wounds,

salve them with forgiveness.

Wipe clean with stark white towels.

launder and liberate with organic suds.

Organic is all the rage,

even my body is biodynamic, staying true to its time and coasting on a trend.


I’m no Heirophant,

but I offer up absolution.

Atone however you see fit,

chart a course in your own waters.

If words contain any power at all,

let words do the dirty work,

banish you from my horizon line.

Sky and earth are beautiful,

don’t sully them.

Withdraw your swords,

leave me to healing.

Forgiveness is offered.

Welcome is not.

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