poem22 Oct 2018 08:20 am

When Tarot cards fail—
and the High Priestess
is brought low,
blue robes swelling like waves,
tumbling from her throne
that teeters atop the Tower’s edge,

While the Magician sinks, flailing his sword,
as he drowns in the Moon’s dark sea
amid his floating cup and white lilies
beneath nightmare wolves’ howls
and psychotic crabs clawing ashore—

When the brave lady tames the fierce lion—
but cannot save the Hanged Man from himself,
and the Star’s light is dimmed, restrained
by shadows cast from the Devil’s chains,

Then the gypsies close up their shabby shops,
and turn off the red neon signs.
Now bewildered by their clients’ fate lines
they return the $10 reading fee—
explaining they can no longer see;
even their crystal balls are now cloudy.

When the runes are a ruin, and
prognostication by stars, entrails,
clouds, leaves, and birds all fail:

Then we must reconstitute the storm
for the homeless last fay—
confer with them to restore the lost chaos,

Invite the young sibyls from their caves
listen to what they say,
ask them to show their unburned prophetic books to us.

Turn off all cellphones and electronic devices.
Light candles for all dead and future goddesses.

Coax the silenced waters of Delphi’s mountain
to flow with cryptic answers again.


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