A sullen lord stands guard upon a monolith.
His ancient eyes survey a plain where white succumbed
to witching black and night itself is purged of stars.
He shifts his bulk, impatient for the scent of prey
come crawling down on dirty knees, perversely begging
for his bite. His palms are thick with hieroglyphs; a cynic's list
of all who fell and found themselves in calloused hands.

Two slaves are caught beneath the devil's granite perch.
One captured soul, now torn to halves, is trapped in flesh
and chained to stone as He and She. Their past forgot,
they stand apart, blank gazes fixed on barren earth.
So long have they been at his feet, they've sprouted horns
sprung from belief that God must be the goat above.
They do not touch or speak; they may not even know
when gardens turned to thorn and dust, why drought prevails
where rivers flowed, or how they came to find this fate.

Two things alone defy the dark: the slaves have tails
that hint of sun. The woman's grows sweet luscious fruit,
her mate's is tipped with yellow flame. Their gifts ignored,
they wait for guides to bring escape but no one comes
and so they stay, with collars loose around their necks,
strong feet on rock, their slack hands free to move and make.
Their lord says naught but harvests what they do not use.
His left hand holds a leaden torch - he dips it low;
their fire turns to ashy smoke. He steals their fruit,
then chokes it down as sour wine that burns his throat.
 

The Hanged Man
Death
Temperance

The Devil
The Tower
The Star

The Moon
The Sun
Judgement

The World