Fortunes and good luck is for spoiled brats rotten,
when you have Destiny crabbing you so tide by your bottom.
She stares in your eyes in dept with tickles of pain,
making you wondering, what is insane.
Her smile no more pretense of craft,
affectionate awakening sincerely laughed.
When conscious metaphors shriek in panic,
one get the sense of some happenstance dramatic.
My wits and psychopathic prayers searching for conclusion,
picturing the firmament already in doomed collusion.
Oh almighty preserver, save me from this destiny,
knowing that I am the weaver of my own legacy.
The blues like lullaby inviting me into her blossom,
haunting echoes in subdued kind of awesome.
Moments become the slow motion silence,
still searching for those magical alliance.
By clarity of deep voice in me, I focus on my breathing,
remembering that creatures of shadows are deceiving.
The pain as metaphor of life is the survivor,
she looks at me with pleasure, that I am now a bit braver.