The Fool or Hanged Man

He will hang upside down and frown
from the pedestal and crown
annointed to him by destiny
Tarot king of fools, you see.
The devout fan of The Hanged Man,
he knows that he must be.
Is one able to know which side of the table
from which one is meant to see?
Upright or uptight
no difference is really made.
There is no jolly in the folly
of this card thats played.
So hard be this card,
when the decks shuffling is willed.
By the words and swords
a number must be killed.
Read to thee a history
in reverse line.
Read to thee the misery
that we surely find.
To rule the tool of the Fool,
one must not think
and be the keeper and the reeper
of a soul that sinks.
Woe is me, never receives pity
for it was written in the stars.
All is made clear through the beer
and spirits of the bars.
Drives insane or in and out of lanes
until a stop is inevitable made.
Heed the call of the law
that must surely be obeyed.
Strip my skin and all within
from my mortal being
and feather and tar over the scar
a folly for the seeing.
Yet beneath and underneath
the down and black pitch
is a wound that will balloon
and eventually pop the stitch.
Twas made so this way to go
and infect all of the senses
to incarcerate and appropriate
my defences without fences.
Left to kill my last long will
is the seed of my travesty;
there is no resilience in the brilliance
of murder's majesty.
Can one hide from suicide
when it is underneath your skin?
Can one abide when it resides
outside and within?
Hope and doubt have to shout
louder to make themselves clear
that they blend into one when its begun
and the end is drawing near.
To see the sign of the finish line
after such a pyrric race
makes one have to at least laugh
in irony's sardonic face.
On Life's shards, spread are the cards
to draw one from the pool.
For my own sake, I pray the choice I make
is NOT again The Fool.