by Nick Gisburne
Stampeding hordes, escaping, running, free,
Unleash inhuman hatred on their guards,
Until the tallest, stymied by the sea,
Begins to pull a reading from the cards.
The crowds, in hushed anticipation, wait,
For hope, for luck, for fate, to feed their minds.
Behind them lies the broken prison gate.
Before them, freedom, fiercely won, unwinds.
The rock on which they stand is not alone;
Identical, they see a dozen more.
A world of water, flecked with shards of stone,
There is no other place, no farther shore.
The reader twists his Tarot in despair,
But knows he seeks for signs no longer there.
