A poem from my "back catalogue" today, from 2003. Somewhat gloomy but suitable to a spell of fever that I've been experiencing.
Death blows so very cold, the other wind,
That ends the life of those so sinned,
Wherein the dark land, the final wall,
A crossing in sorrow, in our fall,
To the land of emptiness, of bone dry dust,
And end to fighting, no swords to rust,
But ends too joy, and all life's hope
The hanged man dangling from his rope
The Moon of the Tarot wears a gown,
And watches the Tower crumbling down,
The Dance is over, the cards blown away,
And so reveal the Tarot's day.