Not preordained, not programmed.
Ties that bound cut to slivers,
what will emerge?
No millennial beast slouches here.
Only speed of light delimits.
Earth’s bowl sky holds only air,
not certain destiny.
Perhaps, if we allow release from
a state of grace may find us.
Independent of holy demons
or royal decree,
fate can be self-reliant.
Beyond grasp of power arrogated
to God or mortal master,
each well-examined self
is a force of nature.
From shadows shy wood nymph watches warily,
ready to bolt rather than chance being seen.
She knows her universe straddles change, craves balance.
Hubris claimed humans cry for trial by combat
sacred? profane? narrations between?
What world is this
in swaddling clothes
at the break of days?