The Psychic
The wax spit on her veiny hands
The wick swayed in the air
The mantra hung
As did her face
Enveloped in despair
Her hands gave birth to the tarots
Unfolding in the smoke
The chanting
In my ear
Had grown, the quieter she spoke
No sooner had she screamed at me
In awful, tearing cry
And shaking, sweating
Said to me
'Tomorrow you shall die.'
poem by Sasha Ioffine
Added by Poetry Lover
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