once to the head
placed before a mercurial table,
is the dire realization
of a disappointing life.
remember the indelicacy
of the fortune cookie
that had no fortune.
the audacious palm reader
that, with no surprise, could not read.
it's like looking in a mirror
that has no reflection
in the light of an unnecessary tragedy.
for it can't conceivably be real,
or true or even possible.
but even still, the angels cry,
and the once silent winds moan,
for a soul that was forfeited
in misplaced hatred of oneself.
