Dead-eyed poker
A
recognition in the sub-queue,
one
waiting without the recoil,
an angry
pointer of a lone hunter.
Wretched.
It’s the tool of the shade
and he
keeps it close, bed companion.
These days
grow wild, a lurid dance.
They say
the end is nigh, a reckoning,
shattered
skies a sign of days to come.
He can’t
make it out, spinning cards
in cigar
smoke spirals, yellowed stubs.
It’s the
girl in red who shouts out first.
To the shadows caught doves crowd.
The first
blood spilled won’t be his own,
but it’s
due. He can taste it, dry as
the caked
dust dead on the windowsills.
Black fog
rolls in on the back of the tide,
spoils of
an unforgiving cursed mind,
carries the
spectres inside, buried, back.
Copyright
Vickie Johnstone, October 7, 2020
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