The Fatalist

I say-

“Wish me well

I'm going far away,

to Hell”

And the smiles plastered on my face

are like clown make up:

smeared, debased

And though you nod your head

and sigh,

like it is all in jest and play

I say-

“what I'm feeling is so real”

I prick myself to let me know

And though I might feel often dead,

See how the blood still does run red

to blend with mud, the frost, and snow.

I could not change a thing you know-

and even if I could I'd say

that destiny has given me

a hearth, a crown, a thrown

but took it all away

I'd say-

I pocket up my destiny

like trinkets from afar

I'd say-

I gave my soul away for a

few pennies in a jar

And then I scooped them up

and spread them

like the whispers of my breath

and thus I knew enough of life

to be quite sure of death.”