I eat all day but never taste, I swallow without a waste. You open me when things go wrong, Then close me up, but I won’t complain long. What am I?

I sound like arrow, but that is not what I am. I carry death, kings, cups, and more, to lay out futures foretold. I am a full deck, but not meant for play; if read poorly, you may start to pray.

I welcome guests but never invite them. Cars rest on me, yet I’m not a garage. I lead you home but I’m not a road, and I belong to you, not the town. What am I?

viscous or flowing. Parties or tranquillity. I can be present at either of these. I shower upwards, as the birds drink from me. What am I?

A velvet spread of pale delight, smooth as a whisper on morning's light. Often paired with rings of gold, yet never bold enough to stand alone. A dairy dream, a baker's scheme, found in layers of a decadent dream.