Every element is carefully selected, from the rams’ heads to the shades and shapes of his draperies. He is bulked and bulwarked, encased in ridged, rigid materials from crown to spurs. Everything is gorgeous, from gorge view to gorget, and preparation is everything; thin-lipped, narrow-eyed, he is unfond of surprises.
He waits, gripped in dread
Battles the creep of ageing
Less feared than fearing.
6 of Wands, reversed
Dread Emperor I have…
Dread…
(Dread)
So, my liege, a funny thing happened
On the way to the battle
And.
No.
Bravely caparisoned and thronged we strode
High were our hearts and strong our voices
Many who cheered us along our road
Blue were the skies with a myriad choices.
Cut to the chase. I think he’d…
He needs to.
I’ll.
Fear now follows fear
A new day beckons the land
The wall has fallen.
8 of pentacles
No matter what occurs, the sky never actually falls. It calls: blue, grey, white, star-sparkling, or rain-blessing. The sky knows its own business; a kind of competence that only the masterful possess. Gaze focused, intent on craft, this one spins out protection, carves calmly the shape that turns back indignities into equality, perfectly balanced.
Empires creak and fall
Wisdom rises to artful
And work still goes on.
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