Often confusing

Prophets.

And when you search for thine fates three,
Remember who made such pleasantries.
The cookies speak of your fortune bold,
Made by some unfortunate thirteen year old.
Such misguided irony,
Seeking fortune from this cookie free;
Maybe if you paid a little more attention,
Maybe you could see.

What of the prophets who stuff these in,
Stuffing prescience endlessly.
Blind prophets toiling away,
Neath a maze of piping steam.
Condemned to death by the masses,
Fixed by greyed tape; their glasses.
Sixteen coins they toil so for.
Fifteen minutes the breath they hold.
All for cookies, crumbling, sold.
Behind some freezer, softened mold.

And when of legacy we fret,
Mediocrity our biggest threat.
Crying of our losses huge,
Cracking open prophecies true.
Crumbling 'side some gooey brew.
The legacy's of our prescient few.
Sweating away in some bloody tomb,
Sweatshops, bodies, masses, full.

And their graves upon we sit,
The piles of dead, aged fourteen still.
The world is built and runs along,
Paved by ground up gristle and bone.
And when we worry, worry still.
Of all the prophecies prophesied still,
Of all that could be, would be, will.
Crack open that which tells your fate,
A fortune cookie; words so fell,
The words of those who's tolled their bell.
Blind prophets sealed by money's spell,
Sixteen pence and none more now.
The price for their souls in tow.