Why not me
I am but one seed by zephyr’s mercy blown,
neither exalted nor unique,
just a blade of grass from the infinite sown.
So are we all at the whim of grace unknown.
Neither the strong nor weak
can claim favour, all on the breeze have flown.
Ill luck strikes at will, a hand not prior shown,
no pre-misfortune peek,
until wounds appear on mind, flesh and bone.