Sunday, September 30, 2012

PREDICTIONS FOR A LAIDBACK PHILOSOPHER







The crowds moved around me
With purpose
Life led somewhere.
My own had settled
At the bottom of a teacup
In a pattern of uncertainty.

The sky held possibilities

My fist held fear.
The mist cleared
And the crystal ball showed
A transit period
When everything I touched
Turned to gold.

I crossed her palm with silver

And she read lines
On mine 
That criss-crossed
Into the star
I would be
When I reached for the skies.

She did not read my eyes

She did not read my thoughts
And I did not tell her
Of old habits
That die hard.













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