The prince of opposites lived a tame life but exacted a preety wild death.

He was doomed to scrub the leeches from the breeches
but deligted to dub the beaches along this coastline all the livlong day anything he may or may not say when the wind washes through his teeth.

His daughter,
who was groomed to be the queen of foresight but grew so smooth and apt into her title as is:
the widow of whim
(even though her admirers to this day faun over her with polutions of this grace and tell themselves and eachother that she will gird the annals of wisdom (which is true but not at the time they say such nonsense))

She will see a chance and pounce on it, but not before acting on the preceding ones that blur across her path in such a way that mid pounce she falls face first onto another one unbeknownst to all awaiting her true course of choice.

As she does this
the rest of the world sees her making many a mistake
while the wonder is that it is not possible for her to make a mistake and not even she is privy to this little machination of chancefiber
(and the wonder is just as cluelessly viscious because noone asks the wonder for its two cents only a here and there dime upon revelation time)