Some more doggerel from the poetry vault

For some reason I thought this'd be a good time to share with you some more of my poor poetic efforts from years gone by. Well, maybe just one actually. Okay, so this isn't great, but then I'm not sharing it to get any false praise from anyone, but just because I like the idea of amateur poetry - there's something about the ethos of it, how reading other people's poetry they've written solely because of some deep-seated urge inspires you to take up a pen yourself. Maybe, I dunno. Anyway,
without more ado...

Card Counting

Wrought within the mindless funeral bed
that's called a mind, the codes for cards were set
and so I learnt them. A young boy with a spade
became the Jack of Spades, a pile of soot

translated into the Seven of Spades, a can
became the Two of Clubs. Then, the next stage
was to transform these images, to break them,
and erase them from memory, as the cards

were dealt, were gone, were played. The Ace of Spades
- Death, the Grim Reaper - then became a dead
image of Death, the can was crushed, the heads
of the Jacks of Spades and Diamonds were unbodied.

Others were easier thanks to you and the hurt.
An Ace of Hearts became a broken heart.