Destiny tends to ship out before it shapes up,
leaving nothing to chance, least of all the
harrowing stares one can't help disowning
in the natural course of a drowsy commute.
The end is insight, that fatuous old news.
Any leftover magic you'd like to unload
may cost more than mobilizing in support of
your least ideal metric of success is worth
once your silence's essential truth is exploded.
Now there's a freak accident I can get behind,
miming an act of footsie as I go; all night I
imagine myself into a more flattering forecast
spun out in lieu of a sight best left unseen.