ink is a fortune-teller

there's something undeniably compelling about palm readers and horoscopes and tarot cards, spiritual belief and how perceived prediction influences reality. in my dreams there's a man standing alone on a cliff with nothing below. it's not too different from my reality. i certainly feel like a fool. i wish i could slot words and belief together and conjure a hurricane, but it's nothing but dust from the mantle. i walk the yellow line between poetic obscurity and pointing out the obvious; it's only a matter of time before they run me off the road. maybe it would be easier to leave my choices up to the ever-changing hands of the moon, lean into the way she pulls me out of futile sleep (as if i've power to do much else). time's a vulture to the plagarist prometheus. inspiration's not lightning to copper, inverse of knife-to-socket. my present might inform your future, now draw a card. maybe it's all ace-of-spades. hammer-to-mirror, face to god, sentenced to fragments.