Fortune wavers as a flame in the breeze,
she is bright as gold in the falling night.
Opened-armed, she receives you on your knees,
healing the woe of some untimely plight.
And she is cruel as winter’s frozen snow,
and she is clad dark in despair’s cloak…
she is the swift foot of the fleeing roe,
when you are bound by hunger’s ceaseless yoke.
Like the gnawing worm of doubt she does rise,
clenched in the deep of your gut, ascending
with the dark of death written in your eyes…
seething with fear and promise unending.
Circumstance is random as Fortune, Fate,
or death, meaning naught but another gate.
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