Did you ask the Gods?
Did you pray meaningfully,
Sincerely to them?
Did you give sacrifices, money, a goat?
Did you tell the priests you were sorry
That you had offended
That you were sinful
And ask them to pray for you?

The problem with predictions is they are unreliable tools
And only usually called upon by liars or by fools.

The Delphic Oracle spoke truths,
Were always partially right
Like the witches in Macbeth and that's the art.
You need a cave or a cauldron and some boiling frogs.
Stare at my palm or the seat of my pants
Try tea leaves for a start.
It's all so unpredictable
And there's a chance of being right.
The now always moves at its own pace into the future
And becomes the past so utterly reliably.

So as we live in the now, which was the then and will be
For evermore, we're never actually sure that the sun will
Rise tomorrow. It's just hypothesis.
Every morning so far. Mine has been correct. There it is.
I congratulate myself.
And the moon and stars follow roughly the same paths
Except for a few big explosions and some black holes
And some very, very dark matters.

My own present path toward disintegration is secure,
Guaranteed, predictable. That's the comfort.
Lots more, different kinds of journeys to go on.
People believe they are unpredictable.
Sort of ... a little bit... now and again
But not. Or they think they are.
That's very important.