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by Cuthbert

The roll of the dice, the turn of a card,
That’s the way of fate, that makes life hard.
No prediction no foresite of what is to come,
But for sure it is known that whats done is done.
Railed to a path, a line set through time,
An angel, a devil, honesty or crime?
We don’t make our future it lays hidden from sight,
Over the infinite horizon, away like sun’s light.
And so we travel our line into the unknown,
And will reap the harvest of seeds already sown.

© Cuthbert 2011


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