Hermit Rip Majestic

At the crossroads of the three ways,
Fate, chance, and choice, this world perches
Like a throaty, hungry raven,

Waiting to see what exposures
To the head-on intersection
Brings its way in the way of deaths

It won’t have to make on its own.
That’s right, we said the world’s a bright,
Shrewd, omnivorous scavenger

Roosting in the Decision Tree.
We’d say the world’s a parasite,
But it’s hard to parasitize

The whole with the whole. (It might try,
Though, this world. It’s awfully fond
Of generating parasites.)

Anyway, check out that sweet spot
In the shade below the world’s tree,
Right at the join of the three ways—

There’s our composer, dozing off
As usual, a being not
Quite of this world, but not quite not.

The brim of the composer’s hat,
Slouched over dreamy, half-shut eyes,
Is stained with the raven’s droppings.

The composer doesn’t care much.
A sweet spot is still a sweet spot
To nap between choice, chance, and fate.