Lucky Star


My horoscope read one word: prey– so I prayed,
consulted my zodiac, sought my true star,
the star I was under when born long ago…

It holds all my plight, all my happiness, woe,
so I invest prayers for my fate in its might,
not knowing Copernicus changed the whole universe

almost five-hundred years ago in May.


People believe in some wondrous ways.
Star gods are nicer than most.

Oh please, just this once, I then prayed to my star.
My star didn’t hear me, but I felt no worse.
It stayed in the heavens, untroubled by Earth.

It glimmered, it gloated, undaunted by men.
How could you deny me, so cruelly deny.
This star– the most powerful being in heaven–

has nothing to do with human dreams or hopes.


Deities often are careless with hope.
Deities often care less.

For Circumstance knows neither kindness nor thought,
no ears to hear prayers nor voice to respond.
Though God-like, omnipotent, Luck remains deaf,

Alone and unyielding, it does not need love,
demands no raw tithe, seeks no worship nor glory,
Life, governed only by this, only this,

endless chance, blissful chance, a gorgeous, cold device.


Luck is the stuff out of which are made dreams.
Death, though, is deaf just the same.

For death― old hag― chemically alters our minds,
a trip that’s worth waiting a lifetime―  or more.
And endless, since relative only to self.

We trip our last instant, wherever we wish,
and all we believe will become manifest
inside our own heads― with both vision and audio―

lingering like the final star of dawn.


If we but conquer our crippling fear,
Paradise’s real for a trice.


more fevered



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