Seeking Second-Sight

Now he knew he’d see anything coming.
Whatever it was, it couldn’t hide from or surprise him.
He’d been taken unawares before, but no more.
Never to be gobsmacked at a corner’s turn again.
His confidence grew. He’d been practicing hard,
pumping mental iron until his foresight muscles
leaked a glowing green power. He’d started
with easy predictions, moon rising times
and settings, snail races, and bird landings.
He’d hit every one, wished he’d laid down wagers.
At this point, he believed, if you looked up second-sighted
somewhere, carved on some cave wall,
his pride boasted there’d be a likeness
of him. So smug. Then the fateful night arrived.
And in his accustomed hunting he encountered
a warrior with strength he’d never seen. Never foreseen.
And in their struggle, he lost his arm, had it ripped off
by this mighty stranger who laughed as the fight heated up,
a battler deranged who feared neither him nor death.
And finally limping back home, he lay down, looked around
for second-sight somewhere, saw nothing of himself, and died.