Nothing happens for the better or for this verse
What does is a series of disparate twinklings
Some can make you, some can break you
The quirk of fate sounds too brood to be true
I ought to be laughing at you pitiable souls
For those who can, do; those who can’t, leave it to fate
Some die chasing a mirage, some a reality of justice
They ash themselves to ashes, others dust it to dust
It is always the unstable of decrepit minds
Left satiated by the targets of achievement.