LUCK FOGIC

The lines on my palms
Are never as nearly good,
In the game of fortuitous alms
She doled me less than she could.

The road was always rocky
But for me the climb too was steep,
She never let it get any easy
Till I stopped to rest and weep.

High tides seek out men to drown
As soon as I take to the sea,
She calms the violent waters down
When the sailor is not me.

Between hypothesis and happening
Lies the abyss of Luck
That one place, that one thing,
Where many like me got stuck.

The halt becomes the destination
When She wills it that way,
Success is but an illusion
That she forges for the best of her prey.

I know men are not born equal
That some are meant to be,
It hurts to not be one of them
To be condemned to mediocrity.

Lady Luck does not serve
She is served, I know
It was not that I lacked the nerve,
But was simply unsure how.

I shall not lay down however,
My arms; the fight will remain
Till the time I own Her forever
My failures shall not go in vain.