Heidelberg Castle in Germany sits at the bottom of a hill.
beyond the exuberant sea
lies an estate in mourning with glee.
its walls rumble with rustic carmine
and ancient Palatinate design.
on level one lies a box, sleek and onyx,
filled with brews and balms and tonics.
it bubbles at a lover’s touch,
yearning for a devoted crutch.
up the stairs and down the hall
sits a tarot reader, hallowed and tall.
drained, he grows with each reading,
and straight through the teeth is how he’s bleeding.
shoe-clad feet slip up the ladder,
as though the final floor may yet matter.
but through the door waits an empty room,
for only you can build your tomb.
