It's three in the morning.

Fortuna

Fortuna, bear with me.
Bless me with the sway of last brush of fingers,
a tab on my forehead.
Whisper by my ear,
Like a swallowtail through a gathering.

It's not of tarot,
I would gladly reveal a tower and a magician.
If it's your will.

It's not of luck,
I don't pray for better days in dying hope,
Those things can be decided,
And undone by a switch of light.

Girl, I know.
You have no control over,
non-existing conundrums.

Even a person living off the flip of fifth card.
Engrossed by make-believes
that the will of man can change reality.
Even they know.
You're not the one to pray.

Even the gamblers knew.
You have no control over anything.
Happiness is as by chance as chance itself.
Funny enough both are under your jurisdiction.

I wish to bless you.
One person to another.
Bless you, with freedom,
of the heavy burden of a false icon.

I wish you to be something else than the wheel.
We all know the wheel of fortune spins by wind,
Not by the one bind on it,
With her hands and legs tied.

Fortuna.
Run.
Like everyone else,
Chase luck and success and happiness.

If there really is a god who controls the three.
I would like a word with it.