Predicting the Future at Three in the Morning

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Palm up, 

Flesh and future exposed,

I trace the lifeline.

Ouija with a razor.

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Pressure gentle, almost kind.

Tempting fate, taunting time.

I await the reprieve, that last minute call.

Some Capra-esque hero to stop my free-fall.

But who am I, Judge or condemned?

Whom do I pardon; who hears my amends?

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The mirror will not bargain,

The mirror won't conceal.

Naked truth, just the facts,

This magic eight ball shall reveal.

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There is no gentle grace in this, no sweet angels.

No arias  or auras or guides.

This will just be the end.

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The bird in the mist.