I’d rather be lost, sobbing and lowly

As the cards fold upon my heart

Locked into a forest of my own making

With redwoods as tall to reach Jupiter’s rings

I’ll never want to know me so I blind myself instead

With stones in my eyes like Christmas coldly

Crisscrossed on cards with my mouth filled with a tart

And king of clubs against my head fresh from aching

Burnt cardboard crown shaking and from all things rotten from kings

Moss on my forehead crashing into trees as I’m mislead

And my thoughts are growing depressed and moldy

My bruising from the bark is now truly art

Lucid and melancholic but without my fingers breaking

Is this really supposed to last? a house of cards in endless hangings

Maybe my fall and autumn can get ahead

Too corrupt to tell people I’m lonely

Just trying to serve with my organs on the teacart

Only to be told it doesn’t count as fresh baking

So to hermit in the house of cards as outside is inside in blessings

So back to the forest where my sight is dead and I’ve lost my head