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Rated: 13+ · Poetry · Cultural · #2222933
A soothsayer makes a wrongheaded prediction.
In the heart of Kentucky one bright April day,
I encountered a soothsayer prating away.
She said, “You’ll never leave Harlan alive again.”
“How could you righty know this?” I asked with disdain.

With an arrogant nose titled up to the sky,
she proceeded to answer my strident reply:
“I am gifted to know what tomorrow will be
  using tarot cards and crystal ball naturally.”

Then I grinned as contempt pinched a nerve in my arm
when my bullshit detector cried out with alarm.
“Is this snake-oil madness in mystical woo?”
“Is performing as charlatan best can do?”

She replied as she then did a tambourine dance:
“I’m Dark Lady, young man, and to see is my lance
as the clouds of the future become crystal clear;”
“Unto me super-nature will always appear!”

I then patted Dark Lady, babushka on head
trying hard not to sink to the dawn of the dead.
There are children aplenty who never grow up
in a permanent state of infernal disrupt.

That was six weeks ago and from Harlan I went
on a business trip west with my senses half spent.
I waved bye to Dark Lady from Delta’s Jet flight
hoping one day she would see reality’s light.

24 Lines
Anapestic Tetrameter
Writer’s Cramp
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