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Rated: 13+ · Poetry · Spiritual · #2259275
A un-shuffled deck. The first three cards. The Fool. The Magician. The High Priestess.
Part One

The fool sat on the axle amid the spokes,
(we'll come back to that presently),
from each hung a mask.
Each mask had its purpose,
each had its place,
did the fool actually have a face?
Perhaps he wore a crown,
but only as a clown.
When two poets are playing poker,
Be sure that one will lay a Joker.

A persona perfectly matched to the purpose,
juggled words, shuffled synonyms, perceived patterns.
Every glimpse conferred a gift:
compassion; corruption; clarification.
Across the centuries the brass head spoke to him,
Intoned. Intones, shall intone, "Time Passes".
For a while, the needle's eye, to carry the thread, one more stitch.
Does he have it all sewn up?
I hardly think so.
And yet.
Another stitch.
Wilt thou? asks the rhetorician.
And cleverness he will accept.
Bridges gap 'twix heaven and earth.
In Eternity, states his worth.

Let's take balance as our theme,
say between, noon and dark of night
or perhaps that should be boundaries
the water's edge, on the brink of oblivion
steps once more over the precipice.
Or stands hermaphrodite
hidden in one guise or another, though always mitred.
Red and blue. Blue and red.
Now moon, now the very sun itself, ride, astride, the horns of a dilemma
Naked strength for all to see,
am by no means uncertain of requirements or function.
Balance, yet never sterile,
fluctuation, sometimes black and white,
yet more often shaded, or coloured, or blurred.
Swells and passes to the next.

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