Flipped it too many times
And it spun, it did;
Hesitations summed up in the metallic
Cling-clang on the floor,
While the answer’s as vague as before,
Unsettling if done more than once
That even chance becomes a hoax,
Where guessing would be as good;
Why, all stops at the tangent line
That no one dares to cross;
That edge where it stands on—
The turning point—
When one turns out better
If not worse;
Head basks on the light’s splendor
As the tail lurks in the dark
Casting a faceless shadow;
It begs the question:
Are we better at being exposed
Or at hiding?
One flip more
And the answer’s as vague as before.
This is the #potd poem of the day.