The Book of Fate

To read through the pages

Of the book of fate,

A book bound and embossed

With the intricate filigree of limitation

Is to open onto the pages of past successes and failures,

Of trials and tribulations,

Of a pilgrim journey of probation

From infancy until now.

The future unwritten but the shadow of yesterday

Looming over the next page

Pages and pages of one’s fate.

Pages read in insufficient light.

Pages like shadows.

Pages read too swiftly.

Pages read just enough to get the idea

But not the complete, intact essence

Pages of vast yearning, of endless expectation.

Pages of the battle with mediocrity

And ultimately the foreshadowing of a solo death.

Pages rifling past in the wind.

While in the making of this book

It seems that often little is circumscribed by memory.

The further into those mists the more like dream.

How much, how much day after day

Is forgotten, how little captured 

Yet the Book of Fate records 

Every last second of experience, even in dream

And all that is forgotten

Is buried in fine script that requires the soul

To become a magnifying glass

So that one might see all that one has been

And all that one might still be.