Roil Under Dispensation

hope burns hot in the hands at the touch of the seven cards of the day's tarot. pain waits dormant throughout the flesh under the state of a false sense of alleviation. the lovers are turned up first striking on the wooden table as a denim clad messiah in Beirut. the fool comes from face down along with a flush beneath the sternum of adrenaline. death turns out to be the pinnacle card daunting its six captives under an omnipotent cast. the four remaining cards below rest unturned leaving an incomplete reading the mug is raised. loose leaf rosemary and thyme tea scalds the tongue on the way down the torso. a throbbing battle of pain and endorphines are left in its wake. the cards are shuffled. pleasure flourishes inside -- a taboo marauding and championing the moment -- before welcoming normality again. it's back in the sackcloth bag for the tarot which is then buried under a birch tree. there it will decay and nurture the tree's roots now unfettered, hidden and untelling.