Is it Quoutcunx or Quincunx? Surely the mind spunks
As it struggles with the occult art of the stars.
To clear up the confusion I loathe to indulge
An infusion of something that makes the brain bulge.
I know that since my Pluto is square to my Mars,
My ego is cast into precarious funks.

Every moment exists as a snapshot in time.
The cosmos is a mobile suspended by grace
Of a great force, perhaps through its conscious intent
To set into slow motion a massive event.
Observations through eons recorders retrace.
They re-correlate happenings when times are prime.

What goes into a horoscope is lots of care
To decipher the moment in question for those
Who need some reassurance that life makes some sense.
There is no need to come to this odd art’s defense.
When in search of self-knowledge, I do not oppose
Some commitment to study. That is only fair.