Poetry

The Magician’s Bedroom

A box of playing cards, premium print.

A corseted top hat with deep red hints.

A box of chips, yet no bag.

A unicorn doll, still with tag.

A mountain made from clothes

including socks with holes at the toes.

Cables, cables, wires and more!

A discarded table on the floor.

Three water bottles, sloshing about

Guarded well from being thrown out.

And peeking carefully into the gloom,

a wary guest too frightened to enter the room.

 

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.