Dan Enache Poet Free verse

Fate's Empty Hands

Fate's Empty Hands

Fate calls me to play with fingers made of violet smoke,
offers me beauty like a sweet and quiet opium stroke,
then turns it against me like a blade of crystal and glass,
and haunts me gently, like a melody that won't let me pass.

It shows me every dream in shades of amber burning bright,
a theater of liquid light across a snow-dusted night,
then tears me away from it like a root pulled from wet ground,
to remind me what I knew: that reality's mute and unwound.

My hands — two hollow cups beneath a punishing rain —
were made to give away everything fate won't let me claim,
to touch the light the way water touches a mirror stretched wide,
and stay with a scorched and empty palm, unmoved inside.

To give only to take back is a ritual that's cursed and scarred,
like planting a rose in dry sand where the soil is charred,
better to have never known the fullness of that taste at all,
than to learn how to fear losing what was never yours to call.

Now I walk through dreams like a museum of wax and ache,
every beautiful thing — a trap that smells of cloud-flowers and heartbreak,
and fate watches, serene, from its tower carved out of the abyss,
playing the same forbidden game with me, world without end, like this.

♡Like0

Share Poem

---

Post Comments

Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.

Please Login to post a comment