Prescient

O ye fates

Why do you treat me so?

The future

Seems right,

Bright.

What signs of my fate

Do you give me?

Naught but

Slo, Road Under Repair

Or

Detour Ahead
Is that what my

Life shall be?

Am I but a pinball

On this path?

Yes

It shall ever be thus;

Complaints are for

Those truly without.

Perhaps these detours

Shall be worthy of

Of my best effort

With blindness a virtue.

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