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How Much
I think of what a pine-cone feels
While staring into the woodland;
Subject of rain and wind and me,
And am wondering just how it deals
The cards, to punters each their hand;
A jack, a queen, a spade, a three.
A full house here, a royal flush there;
Strokes of luck on a creaking stair.
How much is luck? How much is skill?
How much is still to chill with fearless will?
How much is you, how much is me,
How much is subjectivity,
How much is contrived within a scheme,
How much fits snug within the meme,
How much is plotted, planned and prayed,
How much is luck that Fate has played,
How much is true that ever lasts...
How much will last beyond the past?
How much of this will ever be read,
When this poor form heads up to bed?
How much will escape from off this page,
How much will be for you too sage,
How much will rise above the main,
And find a cosy home within your brain?
