Poetry

Playing cards

I search through the deck of cards, upsetting the neatness of the stack. It doesn’t matter, I can tidy them later; line them up and place them all in order, making sure everything is correct, that the story still flows.

Out of line is the only way I can see the stats clearly, see my qualities measured against each other.

Can I really call them qualities?

I don’t know, but at least I have proof that they exist. That I exist. Until my small house of cards tumbles to the floor.

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