Sixes Poem

Inside my soul, the forests are burned to the ground – The tornado of violence twist the echoes into the spiral of hate – The cracks are shallow to the depth displayed inside the mirror, the reflection of he is the him and not i – Blood by marrow is the broken bones inside my closet, upside is down and dry flies too high – Words are numbered to my inverted nine, you count on your fingers and the clock tells you the time – The portrait is painted but the sun has no shine, you are having dinner and the devil is the guest who loves your wine – My sixes were not given, i chose the pick, two circles through the straight landed me the queen of spades with the joker to jack an 8.