"In the lines of our path . . .
Comes an awakening of destiny . . ."
Metallic Gel Pen on Black Paper
a poem written by a friend about the piece:
To whom the intoned prayers point the narrow path shown
'it seems you are not of common men
the ten of wands, the ten of swords, and
i see also The Hanged Man: reaching, gasping,
grasping at the four of pentacles in passing
you will live forever, no matter how hard you try
and believe me, you will try, for the end is a reprieve
you'll kill yourself so many times, for both truths, and lies
always grieving, always doing what's right
but you will never die, you will never die…
The Fool next to Death, a rare sight forever cruel
for he catches his breath so rarely in such company
nearly and barely in such, the company that you seek
and it's heartbreaking to see The Star amongst a backdrop so bleak
but you of all people know that it is used to feeling the black
especially with The Moon so close, yet always staying back
eclipsing your sight, and the silvery light, a repose in peace
but it seems you chose a place you knew you'd never keep…
the three of swords, the nine of swords, and the six of swords
affixed by number and sign to this last card dealt, which is he
The Devil wielding that which he wrought of fire and steel
anguish, depression, guilt, heartbreak, pain and sorrow
spilling concealed within your very marrow and blood
hidden just beneath the surface and surfacing only to hide
the flood kept inside to save those bailing water in, and yet
you are the one.
you are the one running down your face neath the eyeline
always running so you cannot even think, till dried alone.
you are the one.
always running so you cannot even breathe, till wide open, and disowned.
you are the one to whom the intoned prayers point the narrow path shown.'
'but Madame you're surely mistaken, i am but a man like he and him
i am no more or less than ordinary, certainly short of extraordinary
i do only what every man should, and have this grim here as proof
thus far i have only three scars from where out of me poured my dreams
these which bled and died, those that are gone and dead, under mine own hand
and with mine own knife i severed their threads, only to move on, and whether i have, or not,
that is mine own and mine alone for this is my life to end when i will it
and i promise you, i will feel no remorse, for it will be a reprieve.'
'hallow man i tell you, duty is heavier than a mountain
and death, death is lighter than a feather
nethe you, and nether it all, i know what truly lies both abreast and spoken
you can keep running in the rain, hiding your tears in aches and sweat
cutting in vain to slow the spreading poison, but it is inevitable
for this, this is the heavy hand God has dealt you
and these are the blind hands you have been dealt
cast them off and throw them into the river if you will it
and they may even thank your endless, your selfless, kindness, but
just as yourself, these hands will never find joy amongst the rapids...'
by Alain Mower / Carmalain7 [link]
original piece: [link]