Jolly Killers

The muse
shifts and turns
in her crazy sleep.
Her body straining against
the covers,
as if each fiber
of the white sheet
is holding onto her
so she won't escape.
Another character
has entered her dreams.
The black knight
has retreated
to some place far away,
so as not to let
the muse
even reach him
in her place of dreams.
The king of diamonds
is the new actor
in the drama of
the muse's mind.
He steps forward,
dragging his identical
head on the ground,
as if it were,
in actuality, feet,
instead of a head.
He comes toward the muse,
holds her by the arms,
and smiles at her
so joyfully,
so painfully,
as if all the muse's real
and unreal emotions,
were placed in every inch
of this two dimensional
character's smile.
He holds her,
so close to him,
his hands looking so much
like that of paper,
but having more strength
to hold her
than she could have
ever imagined.
He pulls her closer,
into himself,
and shows her
his world,
the place where everyone
is happy,
and two toned,
and everything seems
to be so painfully
only one way
or another.
This is a world,
where there truly is,
just black and white,
she thinks.
She sees
the five of clubs
attacking its
brother or sister,
the 9 of clubs,
with its 5 identical
black shamrock-like clubs,
while the ace of spades,
stabs the three of hearts
with its pointed head.
The muse looks around
at this strange paradise.
The royal cards
dragging their identical
heads on the ground
below them,
as they shamble
around their palace grounds
watching their
numbered subjects
clobber eachother with
the weapons given to them
at birth,
their clubs, spades,
hearts,and diamonds,
each tearing into
eachother
and making black
and red blood
drip in tiny
ordered rivulets
onto the checkered ground.
The muse tries to stop
the fighting,
tries to push between them
w/o getting herself hurt,
but the spades dip into
her soft palms,
and the jagged egdes
of a broken heart
push into her side.
The poor hurt muse
drags her wounded
body
to a silent corner,
shaded by a red palm tree,
and watches in horror,
as the cards, each in turn,
fall to their own weapons.
Hearts breaking hearts,
Spades snapping spades,
clubs clubbing clubs,
diamonds damaging diamonds.
Finally,
the battle of the cards is over.
None but the royal cards
are left standing,
and each card lying on its side,
has red and black blood
smeared over its once beautiful
white contours.
The muse turns to look
at the royal cards,
seeing not horror,
but still that sickenly
joyful,
painful
smile on their
flat lips.
The royal cards
took up their skirts
and long shirts
and danced
around the dead cards,
dragging each of their
identical smiling heads
on the speckled black and red
checkered ground.