The Promise of the Palmist

The palmist claims a special gift—

a skill passed down through mystics' drift

from ancient astrologers of distant lands,

to gypsy queens with bejeweled hands.

They say they can read my fate and past,

my loves, my losses, shadows cast—

be it heart or health, belief or breath,

they see it all in a single breadth.

They scan the lines that lace my palm:

The heart line, first, a map of calm—

of passion sparked, of loves once gained,

of aching hearts, and joy retained.

Then comes the head line, deep with thought,

all I’ve remembered, all I’ve sought—

memories, logic, sleepless nights,

executive functions and moral flights.

Next, the life line, curving long,

a winding path of weak and strong.

They whisper guesses, lean in tight:

"How long you’ll live, how hard the fight..."

And finally, the fate line, grave and bold,

reveals what future days might hold—

for me, my kin, and all our seed,

and even things no one should read.

But truth be told, their art’s a game,

a stage where I supply the flame.

They scan a blank, unlettered slate,

projecting fate as if innate.

Like Google Goggles for the soul,

they claim to see what makes me whole.

They nod, they squint, they act so wise—

and really, who can call their lies?

Still, I gaze down at my own two hands—

these soft, worn maps from service lands.

My heart line—etched by love and care,

for those in pain, for burdens shared.

My head line—formed from years of lore,

from research labs and clinic doors.

My life line—long, and still it flows,

outliving what statistics chose.

And yes—my fate line, bold and clear,

declares what every doc and I now hear:

"I have Parkinson’s. It will advance."

No mystic needed for that glance.

So let the palmists chant their rhyme.

I've read my hands a thousand times.

And every line, each arc and scar—

reminds me who and where I am.