Fortune-Teller | Poetry


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The reversed fool sums up her hand,
As ashes fall on this barren land, 
Prepared for a delayed departure,
She watches as her train leaves without her,
A fortune-teller in an ice white dress,
Seventeen and under far too much stress, 
Finding ways to forget her wasted potential,
This habit of self-sabotage is sequential, 
So she makes her bed in 6ft of snow, 
And I suppose she just wanted you to know, 
That it still has a hold on her, that dreadful year, 
and all she can do is look back in fear.

I did do a whole explanation for this poem, but I think it's better left unexplained so you can take what you want from it. The more I read this poem though, the less I like it and I'm not sure if it's because it comes with a level of self-acceptance that I'm not ready to accept or if it's because it's a flawed piece of poetry. I just don't know, but it is what it is and I hope you liked it. 

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