It all depends on how our inclinations blend.
For a day of good luck we take Gran out to dinner
Then bugger it all by breaking a mirror.
In life’s balance half rises as the other half dips,
And a stranger’s nadir is our solar eclipse.
The wishing-well in our garden, fished by a gnome,
Will recall to the vagrant his distance from home.
For every bad habit too pernicious to kick it
Someone else wins a thousandth of a lottery ticket.
And when bird-shit hits dropped from above
We thank our lucky stars we’ll be the object of love.
Yet logic defies a world of pure yin and yang
With the macheted death of forest orangutan.
What grace could shine as bright as which star
To blind from the mar of a bomb-blackened scar?
No jewel could we find of requisite carat
To cheer a sad life that ends in a garret;
Fabrics of exquisite colour and spec
Leave rainbow hues of their own embloomed on a neck.
So Karma, for me, if she exists,
Is a cold-hearted, one-sided, intemperate bitch.
No platitude do we need to counter the hell
Mankind on his own has the means to impel.
So I’ll live with the risk and take my own chances
Of invoking the ire of fictitious romances.
For only by owning the weave of my being
Can I give to my actions the illusion of meaning.