02 January, 2015

Crying Like an Idiot

Between them all
just an hour of rest
after twelve hours of drink
and all of life’s years.

Tradition starts to set in,
patterns overwhelm emotions
and memories are made
out of spilled water.

A green marble filled with
pink, folded souls caresses
dreary rain—
the souls see past, and future, and now.

A whole town is covered in tiny
shooting stars that attract joy,
repelling any attempt
at subtle Winter hues.

Songs are sung loudly, people punch.
They remember old lovers
as bottles are broken, blind
blonde strength dripping down.

The Queen of Cups
and the Princess of Wands
enamor a wayward cowboy,
poisons in all of their blood.

Families ache to express but
sit in silence, aiming to fill holes
left airing out to dry,
staring in space on a wall together.

The cards speak intentions
if the lovers can sit still long enough;
that dreary rain sends them back,
rumpled souls smoothed out.

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