The shape of what you quietly called in.
What if it wasn’t luck at all?
What if you shaped it—without knowing you did?
No step was made, no plan was drawn—
Still came the shape you wished upon.
No bark, no push, just open eyes—
And what you needed, softly rise.
You called it luck, a passing breeze,
But winds obey such thoughts as these.
It felt like chance, a quiet spin—
But it was shaped… and pulled within.
What if it wasn’t luck at all?
What if you shaped it—without knowing you did?
No step was made, no plan was drawn—
Still came the shape you wished upon.
No bark, no push, just open eyes—
And what you needed, softly rise.
You called it luck, a passing breeze,
But winds obey such thoughts as these.
It felt like chance, a quiet spin—
But it was shaped… and pulled within.
