Fate Is A Poet

A fragile attempt at explaining how fate baffles me.

Fate is a Poet.
Mystery is his muse.
Within my soul, where his
Craft stalks me to submission,
The paradox cannot be denied.

He writes in stolen ink, our tears.
A metrical unit of fluid prosody.
The lyric of his verse is a drum-major allegory.
And our lives echo the cadence like
Hollowed-out palm-wine gourds.

His puns are shrouds. We,
Seeking a simpler rendering, or a
Shred of understanding shrivel
Like crayfish in the sun.

Rambling to read the riddle of his rhyme
We come off the sheets as
Stunned as a ghost struggling
To grapple with his new identity.

Our universe revolves on the ball of his pen.

Etched on the pages of his journal,
Like misplaced epitaphs, are
Drafts of our fickle destinies.

We all are allographs
For fattening his stanzas.