These were the cards I dealt
the night I fell again
into that Bardolic hole of wonders.
The third was the nightmare 9 of Swords,
The 9 of Skulls as I interpret here.
Like dead leaves chained
this angst was too absurdly histrionic;
The Hanged Man, a rush of blood to the head,
The Priestess awaits confession at the holy web
and the sleepless guilt of The 9 eats our dreams.
I am no stranger to these journeys.
The Bardo is not only for the dead
as Life is not only for the living.
More often now I seem to walk through mirrors
with one foot here and one foot there.
Art and Poem by clinock
Art: 8″ x 17″ (20 x 43 cm). Mixed media relief in cradled panel.