The Daughters of the Night. Three in number, Clotho, Lachesis, Atropos. The spiner of fabric, the weaver and the cutter. The present, the past and the future.
"Lachesis" rises! Lachesis the whore! The one that holds
the reign of my fate was sitting dressed in white and singing playfully to
herself “What necessity brought these linear species of human deeds? What
knuckle dreams those vermins dream in obscene chords that lie beneath me?”. Oh!
The irony. The sarcastic words that struck my senses. “Shall I measure the
thread of your life with my spinal rod? Shall I bless you with plague?” she
sung and faced me. “Shall I bless you with words that you’ll envy their
meaning?”
Shredding the fabric of time, I rise, holding my
belief against the inevitable end. The final death. From times before
civilization to the industrial sounds of modern era, I question this. Are we doomed
to be harvested by her will? To whom is the future known, other than her?
Lachesis rises! Lachesis the whore!
It begins, with my fingers hitting the keys and moving
along disharmonic melodies. I am the grim voice that hit your ears. I am the
chorus of a chaos without end. Can you dance in my rhythm? Can you follow the
unending song of her will?
Deeply I sing with madness and my words hit the spinal
cord of time, from past to present and the future that flows through my
maddening dance. Yes! I am madness maddened by the sheer thought of a chaotic
revelation.
I spin around her, covering my mortality with a large
weft. Riffing my way with black melodicism, against her, like a fortune
dreamer. My cloth may look dim and dull, but it is made by the bloodiest of passions.
My will! My fate! My life against the matchless design that waits to be
revealed.
My song is of orchestration, rising like a twisting tornado
around me. I see my past, floating with pictures. Memories, beloved and hated I
despise and she will answer to my demand. Lachesis risen! Lachesis the whore! She’s
holding the valorous puppets and I see myself with strings, hanging loosely
from her fingers. “Like dust of stars show no more.” spoke her wide mouth.
Like a cynic piece in a
rotten needle. Accept it! Accept the inevitable dance of Vacantfield. It is a
theater of madness.
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