They told me,
“Wait for the stars to align.”
But darling,
I’ve seen stars only align
when I tilt my head just right,
squint one eye,
and pray the wine glass is full.
I say—forget astrology.
The iron is glowing red
and my hands are steady.
Do you think destiny waits for moon phases?
Even the moon waxes bold,
then wanes without apology.
I am the alignment.
The cosmos is simply jealous
of how I forge my own fire.
So I lift my hammer,
strike with laughter,
strike with grit,
strike with the sacred rhythm
of my own audacity.
Yes, I stumble,
Yes, the sparks sometimes burn my fingers,
but better singed in pursuit of glory
than frozen in the waiting room of doubt.
One strike is victory.
Another is legacy.
And when they ask how I made it,
I’ll say—
I didn’t check my horoscope,
I checked my courage.
And the stars—
those glittering witnesses—
cheered from their seats in the dark—
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