fate sometimes gets in the way of fate,
and I am a mind burdened by
the hands and feet I cannot see,
the ones attached to me, or so I think,
those silent limbs stretched forth
into some unknown chasm
where what I do is done
beyond the lines of who I am
or what I have become,
and Kafka's test of right or wrong
marries past and future
as a present song,
a Siren's shrill that all your life
is not your own
(or that the games the gods might play
will take your plans and hopes away),
this is the way things are.
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