of tarot and terror (november 28, 21)

there has always been a knife over my bed.
i know its steel gleam and the sick
sharpness of its point well, but it is above me and not
in me, so we are amicable.
it and i come as a matched set;
i belong completely
to the swords suit,
always painted in peril,
and the familiar, ambient panic
(some suspended suspense)
has slowly smoothed to a low hum.
still, at night, i look up at that grim
reaper and only now begin to appreciate its power.
the threat of violence does not come alone,
it is also matched
with the spiked promise of harm;
beneath the blade,
i must reconcile with the fact that, one day, it may drop.