What demon
Keeps the indices
Of chance,
The interception
Of our paths,
And rends the spires
Of unsuspecting love?
Who stokes the fires
Of hopeless dreams
And schemes
To emasculate the soul?
To brush against
Contingent joys
Is but to measure
The absurd.
Is love the prize
To be denied?
So runs the course--
That each his way
Will pivot
To the call;
And he, who throws
The speckled rocks,
Laughs lightly.
1997 by Pasqual S. Schievella