The Three Fates spin and weave.
You think they scheme, but there is no scheme.
This is not theirs to plan, they are only the deliverance.
The Spinner of our lives,
the Allotter of our time,
and the Unturnable, the eventuality that cuts us all short.
She was here first.
Before life, before all that we live through.
Atropos, atropa belladonna, deadly nightshade, lady of the forest, the empress of the weeds,
she tricks us, at least
that is what we tell ourselves that she does.
We let her in, drop by drop.
She widens our eyes, lets us see the monsters in the dark.
Or perhaps it is she who places them there.
She is that which soothes us, but a drop too much and she will turn
our pulse wild against itself.
It is the atropine which sends us running
toward the finish line, away from the teeth
and claws at our heels,
and the scopolamine which lulls
us to sleep, tells us it is all right now, that we have won.
Sometimes our brains are the ones seeking
to poison us, asking that we trust ourselves,
conjuring visions of Atropos there to guide us
home, telling us our time has come.
Convincing us that our fate is sealed, unturnable.
Turn away,
trust yourself a little less,
just for today,
for the flower may be sweet but the berry is bitter,
and sweeter things are yet to come for you.