It's unlikely that Tyche will like me. Thus far
She incited her pikeman to pike me. No scar
Can solidify rightly when wounding is set
To forever. I have no endeavor.
When reality stabs, I prefer to divert
My awareness away from the sedulous hurt.
I'm incredulous, doubting my tremulous bone.
No reposure is winning composure.
I am sessile, no longer a vessel of go,
And have nestled to wrestle with worry. I trow
That my happenstance, routed by deity's laugh,
Has been sacking my zeal, so I'm lacking.