The Fortune-teller, the Genie, and me.
No one goes to the fortune-teller;
they’re afraid of what they’ll hear.
The Past built the totems to which we’re tethered.
Now, our foresight is not freedom; it’s just fear.
No one goes to the fortune-teller;
they’re afraid of what they’ll see.
The Future floats like a fickle feather,
but the end is inevitable to me.
So, kiss the ground
and be thankful for your feet.
They follow the sound
of your hell-bound heartbeat.
The Hunter’s hounds
will trace the tracks to your defeat.
And the Gravedigger’s mound
is your blanket’s destiny.
You’ll be looking up at mud
with, literally, cold blood,
singin’, “They have made worm’s meat of me.”
No one rubs on the Genie’s lamp;
they’re afraid of what they’ll say.
Thrice responsible for failing fellow man:
“All for none and one for one!” —-that’s the game.
No one rubs on the Genie’s lamp;
they’re afraid of what they’ll want.
Desire will misguide you like a wolf disguised as lamb.
When the sheep plays the shepard, you lose the flock.
So, fall in line!
All us ants go marching on,
searching for a sign
in the Shipwreck-Siren’s song.
Ol’ Father Time and Mother Earth beckon you home
with their lullabies and their arms of oceans.
You will fight the futile fight,
trading tears for tide,
Singin’ , “Et tu, Brute?—-I should have known.”
No one listens when I’m singin’;
they’re afraid that they’ll agree.
The crystal balls and the tarot readings
are just vague, wrapped in relativity.
No one listens when I’m singin’;
they’re afraid they’ll sing along.
You can wish and wish and wish ‘til you cease breathing,
but the only one that lasts is carved on your tombstone.
