Cosmic Ballroom
a poem
If Karma is a bitch and Time an old man
then Fate is the floor they waltz upon.
What an elegant pairing to behold!
Round and round they twirl,
her stomping on toes,
he never resting or purpose wavering
to the music of cheers and wails
of a sightless audience
only noting the imprints left behind.
Choice holds the mop
and chases after the spectacle,
mixing stardust and blood in equal measure
always a step or two behind the beat
unaware of his own pattern,
painting tiles as he toils.