The Moirai
(Or When Tears Are Never Enough)
It seems to be the will
of those sisters three
that the words clawing
up from deep within
cannot cascade,
cannot bubble up from my
fingertips and spill
from the tip of my pen
so that ink can carve
into thread so abruptly
cut,
a tale of unmitigated sorrow.
It will not let blank canvas hear
my cry or let my tears run
black ink in a waterfall of
misery
for The Weaver has abandoned
her spindle
and the fine string that
wove together your thread
has started to unravel.
The allotter has drawn
up her rod
for there are no more
years left to measure
and the thread is drawn
so taut that the fine
strands are fraying
held now together
by the unmeasurable
thread that is memory.
The cutter has laid down
her shears for her task
has come and gone
but the thread she has
severed still gleams with
the warmth of the kindness
left behind
and the ends, though unraveled,
do not fray
for they have migrated
to other threads still being
woven.
