With a single red thread she'd weave our tale, every step taken, every path tread, every voyage we'd sail.
As sharp as her needle her words would sting, life with each breath and death exhales bring.
Be it fortune or ruin these stitches won't be undone; burn, beg, or blindly run, there's no changing a song that's been sung.
No matter the outcome never give her ire or hate, for only a fool would curse their own fate.
©fromtheash
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