The oracle has been cast,
All prophecies written
And the script lay beside me,
Yet I cannot respond.

The sheep are led to slaughter
With foreknowledge
Of expected end
To supposedly read their lines.

Is the plan so distinct
As to being unalterable?

The prompter’s voice prods
My memory.  A haze appears—
While stumbling off stage
I cast my script
Into the fire of hopeful transformation.