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Poem

“Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.” - Khalil Gibran

I am a delicate deck of cards,
alabaster roots, tossed
across time’s yard
from foolish patterns
of poker promises,
like the days
when scorching summer
was an ace of solstices.

You’ll find my name
in numbers where
the perfumed forget-me-nots
in pressed pages slumber;
defined as the black hearted
queen of blood diamonds,
soaked in vintage
murdered lies-
fallen angels, singing
solitaire’s sorrowful sirens.

For I have long earned
the straps
within mystical corners,
crumpled, placed
to breathe in a crystal coffin
with no escape, 
and no mourners.
Yet the moon subtly smiles-
at our sin, through
rose-colored everything.
And I swim
in my own darkness, wading
through wet waves
of black spades,
washing wounds
in the nothingness,
crashing unto gates 
as heavy as
a raven’s wing, 
whilst I’m clawed
and transformed
under betrayal’s sting.

So take my scars
as an offering,
feeding the knotty cracks
in our foundation, paper thin;
there’s nothing left
to take, or give in
this facade we maintain
of this kingdom
of an immortal harlequin.

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