We turn a few moments anxiety into fresh-faced
opportunity to go places, meet new provocation
while understanding nothing; it won’t be a same
old, same old will it, you improvise - like there’s
something hidden in the clockwork of an astral
machine with maybe your name written clearly
for the Gods to churn over. Imagining that your
fate is held in celestial hands seems weird, but
pressure to succeed - it’s ordained by whatever
makes sense as occult belief we are freely able
to imbibe without excise or control; hey, that is
something you can agree with now, if it’s going
to help you survive
© 28 September 2013, I. D. Carswell
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