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Her kindred spirit, her gypsy soul
And weathered hands stained by coal,
Composed of tangled strands of toile
pulling her to and fro like a fool.
She admired her heart which led the way,
And the pieces of life she gave away,
To help the wanderers seeking truth,
Wishing for passage beyond a tollbooth.
Yet all these guests which shared her table
Took tokens of her life unstable.
Never could she take the time
To clean her inner gook and grime.
The cards, the cards, they framed her walls,
Stole her mind and stained her shawls.
They sucked her into the great abyss
Where mediums go to steal a kiss
From he, the madman of the art,
The one that compounds all their hearts
To rubble and debris dusted with glitter
Of the card reader’s household litter.
Now her soul is all used up
And leaves behind a woman stuck
In sleep where all the mediums go
To sit as long as your ancient merlot.
And he’s to blame for all this mess
The cloaked and looming man, Madness.