Each hand signs a contract with shadows it cannot read,
And calls it will, or want, or some interior need.
It moves toward doors that glow, or hum, or faintly plead,
Yet names them wrong in haste, and follows where they lead.
The dimness is not absence, but a careful misdirect,
Where bright appears as kind, and dark escapes suspect.
He chooses, as they do, with reasons half-erect—
A logic dressed in light, with outcomes left unchecked.
Fate is not found waiting, nor buried to be known,
It forms within the act of claiming what is sown.
A script in half-blind ink, by unseen pressures grown,
Authored by a hand that thinks the choice its own.
He gathers trivial signs—a feather, shard, or thread,
Assigns them secret weight, though none has truly said.
One opens into ash, one circles back instead,
And one remains a key to doors that were not led.
The map begins as tool, then subtly shifts to guide,
Its lines incline toward truths the chooser cannot hide.
He follows what he drew, then finds himself inside
A pattern he insists was chance, not something that complied.
A mirror waits in silence, offering no defense,
Reflecting not the form, but the forming of the sense.
No verdict there of wrong, nor praise of recompense—
Just someone mid-decision, dissolving in the tense.
Where light borrows from dark to sharpen what is seen,
And dark acquires a glow where light has never been,
The boundary performs a fragile in-between—
A place where both are false, and both remain serene.
At last there is no threshold, no final, fixed decree,
No door to close the sum, no single way to be.
Only a hand still writes, beneath what it can see,
And calls the script its fate—observed, not fully free.