Your cards are something that I desperately would like to fix
But my fingers are terribly stupid with those witty kinds of tricks

If I could, I would move the conceited constellations by degrees
After re-tossing all your bewitched leaves from your stupid teas

And I don’t know whether God just weighted your dice for kicks
But I wish I could be an ill sport and pick for you a face of any six

Because, although I can only see nonsense when you grin about your Belief,
It has moulded you into something perfect
and you deserve all there is of any relief.

Your droopy eyes are palpable
But their leakage is  so very  liquid
That everything  from your frown and down
are only streaks of monochrome colours.

The shine from your bottom lip’s pout  
Is the sole indication of any protuberance
In between the  misty, misplaced  smudges
And  now I’ve gone and lost your focal point.

Your wilted close is tangible
But the reasoning is  so volatile
That I’m unsure of Where the dead must head
And whether *** just simply is a sin.

The parameters are but blurred
And lead to a dissipated bit of an apex
Among smears of arrogant  ignorance
And now I’ve gone and belittled your focal point.

But what is it, exactly, that you wanted to make an impression of?