A Sestina on Destiny

 Along the path that leads me to my fate:
An open view upon a barren land,
A sun that neither rises, sets, or cares,
And, through a landscape full of ill regard,
At points and scattered, something not quite seen --
Like anger once, now fossilized and set.

I dare not look, and so my thoughts I set
Upon such things as might avert my fate;
But there is little joy among what's seen
No matter where my eyes may light or land.
Still, maybe, I can shape by my regard
A family to lighten all my cares.

But there's no shoulder, there's no brow that cares,
Or sees laid out the problems I've been set:
So this is mine alone to tend, regard,
An cultivate into accomplished fate --
Within the emptiness of this strange land
Where there's but little variation seen.

I stop my walking; for I think I've seen
A sign, an indication. Full of cares,
I need a quiet place to sit, to land,
And for a spot these heavy fears to set.
Perhaps there is another path or fate:
Some spot I missed, or failed to long regard.

I play through memories, and I regard
Each one. What eyes take in, and what they've seen
May differ. Are there clues laid down by fate
That may be found by anyone who cares
To look more closely? My attention set,
Upon one memory I finally land:

Quite early in the walk, a piece of land
That had some blades of grass. So I regard
The memory: a signpost there was set
Way back, and quite ill-painted, barely seen
But legible: "THE ONE WHO WROTE THIS CARES.
AND DESTINIES ARE MANY. CHANGE YOUR FATE."

And now, within the land, a new way seen:
A brief regard, an easing of all cares,
A new direction set, a different fate.

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