4 Of Hearts

Whispers of silvery smoke cloud my judgement.
And a hungry emptyness fills my insides.
The taste of indecision; bitter and resentful on my tongue.
Do you think he sits there? The person who decides it all.
With scales, dropping things into each side, equating your destiny.
When words escape you, does he take a grain of sand out?
When he removes that speck of dust, do you forget some small thought that popped into your head?
Are we all puppets, with hidden strings?
"Poor old devil, his minds not what used to be."
Perhaps his scales got neglected; perhaps too much dust fell into them.
Perhaps his marbles rolled away...
What did this man drop into my scales when you fell into my life?
A pack of cards?
Shuffled, and out of order. Irregular.
With a malicious glint he regarded the cards I'd been dealt.
Out with the 4 of hearts, out with the 5.
Taking away suit by suit and leaving me only with the Joker.
Now I'm left, playing 52 card pick up. Unbalanced.
Do you think he sits there? Like a child pulling the legs off a spider.
Or squashing ants with his thumb.
Does he see me through the magnifying glass? Small, sublime.
How long until I feel the burn?
Perhaps this is just part of something bigger.
A layer, encased within something.
Like a russian doll, but continued infinately.
Perhaps in the future I will have a child who squashes ants.
Perhaps when that one ant gets wiped out, JFK gets shot on November 22, 1963.
With each clumsy stamp, a hollocaust wipes out hundreds?
Or perhaps I'm thinking too much.
Perhaps this is it.
And this is me.
And this is my all fault.