Sometimes there are blooms
In the unplanned – like the unplanned tear
That speaks for the conscience
In the tongue of empathy
Or an unplanned pregnancy
Which breaks open a stubborn shell
– Walls erected by the fear of parenthood –
Or an unplanned rendez-vous
Of an old flame – perhaps still secretly ablaze
After all unplanned is the
Mission statement of fate
That sculpts those rare events
Crashing against your very existence
For you’re only as alive
As the many collisions, inside or out
Where man finds his own design of fatum
As an accident of odds.


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