Atropos – a poem

Three Fates to work Time’s world, to spin,

To weave, to cut, threads of temporeality

Which snare unwary mortals, souls sought

By demons of the wastes which lie beyond

All ken of man, ladies or swirling storms.


Time’s weaver winds about in dark worlds

Unseen, all machinations meandering for

Want of strange conclusions, if only glimpsed

Could be by these eyes, staring to see more

Than light alone mayst try to uncover.



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