Like a bee to pollen

or the sun to set.

Where a damsel will pluck her finger

our trio after trials and tribulations

will shoot a thread for each of you.

With imperfections a plenty

and tangles to unravel.

Yet it will be yours to follow.

Whilst we merely supervise it.

It couldn’t be any other way.

Who’s to say our origin,

certainly not the same of the mortals below.

Yet here we stand creating their perfect life for them.

How would we even know?

Storks fly and babies cry

to the solemn mother.

The beginning.

A misguided strand now

particularly placed.

Your mortality looms ahead, of your baby steps.

Miles ahead now of the fiber that dictates,

your fate.

Times will come where

You attempt to pull at the twine we hold you on

the puppet playing his master.

No no no.

This won’t be.

Despite movement and anguish,

the strand of your life has a mold to fall back into.

A box to check.

How funny your disdain for submission is.

Your free will in non existent to us

the triad in these heavens.

Or so that’s our path.

Within Greek knowledge at least, yet

Who controls our spindle?