It's like a dream I watched myself live
One life, some time ago;
I find myself sitting
With a pile of thoughts I hate
To sort through, all because
And what I call coincidence
May, in fact, be some divine reaching,
A finger breaking the surface tension
Of a well-plotted life, making me shudder
At the ripples that don't belong,
Or the street-side beggar
Masked in royal robes.
When all the tumblers click into place,
It's hard to call it any less than fate.
Monkeys can't type out Shakespeare
Striking random keys, but you
Seem to have evolved from Darwin's nothing.
I can't float away from the road at my feet
Or stop my trance-like walking;
Something shoves me forward
And I get the sinking feeling of being
Separated from my exit
By five lanes of rush hour traffic.
I don't know how to get to where
I don't know I'm going, and I won't
Until I've spent three nights
In the pit of a whale.