I sharpen my hands
upon the Eighth Pentacle,
hammering repetition
into something worthy.
When the work was done,
I climbed high enough
to see The World,
a circle without edges,
spinning beyond my certainty.
A lion guarded my heartbeat.
A magician taught my fingers
how to pull purpose from emptiness.
Below me,
the Wheel groaned,
dragging fortune upward
through dirt and patience.
The stars burned holes
through the night.
So I wished.
And Judgment arrived
wearing my own face.
Death no longer frightened me.
We had shared too many roads together.
The Devil remained nearby,
a drinking companion
I never fully trusted.
And still,
I wandered.
A Fool carrying tomorrow
inside torn pockets.
Yet slowly,
I learned the architecture of stability:
the warmth of Four Wands,
the discipline of Four Pentacles.
Tarot is not my destination.
Only a lantern.
But if I must teach,
let me teach others
how to trust the kingdom
already buried within themselves.
For tonight,
I ride like a Knight of Wands,
wild,
unfinished,
burning.
Yet one day,
I shall sit upon my own throne:
clear as Swords,
steady as Pentacles,
and bright as Wands
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