Eight of Pentacles
The room in which we sat was thick
with electricity and silence
and we were suspended
as we stared at the cards.
You read me like an open book,
well versed and scholarly.
I was spilled all over the table between us,
almost unbearably so.
The air between us was heavy
sagging under the weighted conversation
pulling us ever so slightly closer together.
You are a mystery.
I've read you cover to cover
but I've only begun to learn the language.
I couldn't define the finer points,
so I played with the pictures
-the images laid out before me-
like a child.
Poetry by Sparks
Read 917 times
Written on 2010-10-16 at 20:17
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