Few of us are truly great
Such is the needled design of Fate,
The three knit and knit, we wait and wait,
To see the garment of what comes late.

Silks and satins colored bold,
Chiffon and tulle of brilliant gold,
Always new and ever old,
With diamonds stitched within the fold

Woven shapes and silhouettes,
Of our desires and our regrets,
But just a tool, a net of nets,
Archiving all that God forgets.

And all this done with blackest thread.
Not judging, but collecting dead
Their one eye shared between the heads
Sees the pattern, hope and dread.

They whisper softly their dark truth,
With their communal single tooth,
That scissor snip not much vermouth
Ended one saddened, troubled youth.

And yet we mock and tempt the three,
Such lowly bugs, humanity
One for all and all for me.
We view ourselves a sturdy tree,

Collective forests true and strong
That grow throughout the ever long,
Towards Heaven’s great and cloudy throng,
Till mighty Death corrects our wrong.

And once collected, all the facts
Show Death’s a puppet, just an axe
A tool that serves and hacks and hacks
For weaving ladies, lumberjacks.