Francine smiled
as the fatuous faucet of fate
turned on.
Fastidious fatalism was the fashion
in those days.
Far to fanciful for that farce,
she foraged in fantasy
far from the fashionable.
Maybe, she thought the
fallacy of fatalism would
fall away, become fallow.
She realised sadly, that
fatalism was fed by failure.
Slowly fate revealed to the
faithless the fakeness of fatalism.
Faintly faith was being farmed,
no longer a facade or some
fading fad.