My low expectation, my Sod's law, is your Occam’s Razor.
My collective hopes and fears, to you, just a curtain raiser.
You forecast reaction, saw the fallout, mapped the pattern.
You told me the consequence of an action yet to happen.
My judgement is organic, based on feelings purely intuitive.
Your processes are all too scientific, to all emotion, punitive.
My conspiring alternatives, are just your writing on the wall.
My psyche cries “C’est la Vie”, yours cries “bloody inevitable”