Steve Pearson Poetry

Oh capricious fate
Of whimsical intent
When goodness make
Else ill invent.

Whose hand guides
The fall of chance?
What, where decides
Through irked askance?

Might life prescribe
Which path prevails
When life decides
Our new travails?

No prayer to God
Nor supplication
No feeling odd
Nor fey sensation

It settles akin
To the shaken dice
With nought therein
But chance device

Alas the die thrown
Just rattles away
When good is sewn
Upon the day

But settle it will
Right to your side
When thrown by ill
Wherever you hide.

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