I use every little omen,
each step and muddied crack,
but avoiding them so carefully
will never bring you back.
If I abuse this ladder
like I have myself,
will it mean less of life’s
inconsequential wealth?
By not hugging those fine contours
of clinging wise, wild walls,
will it mean more bad luck,
and crippling emotional falls?
It could just mean that I dodged death
by a random, stolen car –
regardless, it all means nothing,
except you died, which I find bizarre.
Black cats may come to me
and weave me with their tails,
but they won’t ever convince me
disaster looms when time is frail.
I observe the cows all gathering,
forewarned by superstitious train,
I look to the sky, yes they are right,
here indeed comes the rain.
I feel my face, but the sad truth is
the wetness is pure, torrential pain.
And, as luck would have it,
I find I am crying once again.
As it Comes 