Once every two hundred years a fateless moon rises.
On this night destiny has no hold.
Beggars can become kings, great deeds made commonplace.
All the seers and prophecies are simultaneously right and wrong.
Change overtakes the land, filling it with chaos.
When morning comes the world has been reshaped.
Lines redrawn and old orders fallen, fates control reestablished.
By Nicholas Byrley
Friday at last and another semi-random poem. On a fantasy/otherworldly kick right now I guess.