UNTIL IT'S FINE

Something mostly divine,

Sometimes, it's ours to define.

Unlike the plant called Vine,

Destiny seldom has pine.

And it is our duty to prune and refine.

From the feet till we see the spine.

It may be a good omen,

To which we shout Amen.

It might have a fault to mend or dirt to filter,

Which might make us think that God did falter.

But we can write our own destiny.

Yes, we always do.

Remember that road you used to the mill,

The particular person you talked to,

Has it not been your own will?

When you wanted to learn,

Even when in prayer you did yearn,

You took that training seriously,

And you passed out successfully,

That was your own destiny.

That was your pen on paper.

When you write, no one can alter.

I am the secretary of the God you don't know.

Now wait while I print yours out to show.

Written down by you as white as snow.