Prophecies

Before me lays a woven fate, defined, predetermined. Every thread lain by my hand, wether neatly or in disarray. Night by night I remain, I watch as the hands I’d like to call my own pattern and place my course, I stare in disgusting awe at what they may lay before me. I have been entrusted with the burden of knowing, and so I weave. I have seen this all, time and time again, patterns fall as I watch my history turn. Yet here I weave.

Patterns make for a lovely tapestry, predetermined and terribly pretty. Each move predicted several rows ahead. Threads into line whether neatly, or in disarray, depict each grand tragedy. All other detail has long since been lost to the craft, each instance that sought hope.

Why would I weave anything else? I’m terribly skilled with this picture, I know exactly where to place and when to move. Who to speak to for the threads.

Though, lately, my sources have been naught. I would go to a man, a philanthropist with a sword, and a traveling cart of free materials. For the man on the corner he would keep matches, for the man in red he had kept hot coffee, and for me, he kept thread. Unspooling exactly as much as I had always asked for, and then a touch. On his chipped blade he would sever the thread. On his visits I would offer silvers and insisted he accept his favorite, charcoals. He would talk of me with the folks of town as if this was the first act of kindness he had seen, and he learned all of my favorite patterns. He wanted to tell me of all his ventures, and confided in me.

The mans cart had been broken in a neighboring town, and with it himself. He rarely came around after that, wandering, wondering. Retreating into his own. Yet, here I weave, wondering myself what I’m to do when I’ve ran my reserve dry. And he is no longer here, with that knowing grin, and a spool of thread as an excuse to be near those he cares of. Will I no longer weave?

Image is not mine