Four Of Clubs Poem by Jacob Underwood

I'd rather be lost, sobbing and lowly
As the cards fold upon my heart
Locked into a forest of my own making
With redwoods as tall to reach Jupiter's rings
I'll never want to know me so I blind myself instead

With stones in my eyes like Christmas coldly
Crisscrossed on cards with my mouth filled with a tart
And king of clubs against my head fresh from aching
Burnt cardboard crown shaking and from all things rotten from kings
Moss on my forehead crashing into trees as I'm mislead

And my thoughts are growing depressed and moldy
My bruising from the bark is now truly art
Lucid and melancholic but without my fingers breaking
Is this really supposed to last? a house of cards in endless hangings
Maybe my fall and autumn can get ahead

Too corrupt to tell people I'm lonely
Just trying to serve with my organs on the teacart
Only to be told it doesn't count as fresh baking
So to hermit in the house of cards as outside is inside in blessings
So back to the forest where my sight is dead and I've lost my head