The mystic peers into the scrying glass,
Searching the swirling mists of time and space
For clues of events that will come to pass,
Finding no outline her finger can trace
Of my waiting path or the trials I’ll face.
My story is one only I can write.
Tarot cards and runes hold no magic sight.
The future is shaped by my own choices;
Required actions, no matter my fright;
Never determined by mystic voices.