Bleeding Opportunity

I couldn't let Chance run by,
so I grabbed it by the shoestrings,
watching it trip and slam its face into the concrete,
the teeth of circumstance loose and bleeding opportunity all over the pavement,
And here's me, running around with a glass beaker,
catching the dripping drops of future hope,
trying to save them from a time dried out and baked on the sidewalk in the sun,
holding no promise and no chance and no circumstance for anyone,
but collecting them instead,
watching the beaker fill as the days left in front of me fill my head
with words and sentences not yet said,
and therefore dead.

But Chance?
Chance wasn't a fan,
on its back on the concrete, looking up at me,
staring with an accusation that I couldn't ignore,
I mean, honestly, I had just sent it sprawling to the floor,
watching as I collected its misery to be my gain,
And with a look of disdain, Chance said my name,
The syllables echoing on the deserted street,
there was no one out there for Chance to meet,
just it and me,
staring silently,
It trying to hold back and me trying to grab by force
all that's left in front of me,
Looking around for something more solid than destiny,
Some piece of the rest of me,
and that's when Chance laughed at me,
because the busted teeth and the dripping blood were just symbols of who Chance really was,
and no matter how much of it all I collect,
or how many empty sidewalks I used to grab Chance and hold it in check,
Chance would always get up and walk on,
and when it turned the corner, I looked in my beaker,
and the blood was gone.