“Spin the bottle, there’s a selection to be made,”
“Not by us, but by fate, the great selector,” he said.
But I do not believe in dice and other such charades,
I am the decider of my destiny, no palms need be read.
The hell-bent charlatan, he wouldn’t give up so easily,
“It’s written in the stars,” he mentioned in a whisper.
Horoscopes are the fates of fools hurrying about busily,
Tricks of the mind, an injury to commonsense, a blister.
“The gods will it,” he pressed, desperate for greedy gain,
But there is only one God, and a thousand pretenders.
And following after idols is the harbinger of eternal pain,
I have sworn eternal allegiance to my soul’s Defender.
My resolve is a dead horse, a flogging of which is a wasting,
Of time and energy, a mindless reasoning for no reason.
I am the believer, my faith unfading through life’s hasting,
And from sunrise to sunset, unyielding through the seasons.