I sit where time forgets to breathe,
Among the stars, beneath the weave.
The spindle turns, the fibres hum,
And through my hands, the lifelines come.
So many lives, so soft, so brief,
A thread of joy, a thread of grief.
I do not choose, I do not sway,
I only spin what finds its way.
A cry is born, the strand appears,
So small, so bright, untouched by years.
I feel it pulse, I feel its tone,
And yet, it is not mine to own.
Some come tangled, some come clear,
Some thick with love, some laced with fear.
I twist no hate into the line—
What mortals add is not from mine.
You think us cruel, aloof, and cold,
Because we work with what unfolds.
But if you’d sat where I have stood,
You’d see how much is misunderstood.
For every thread I set to spin
Is soft as breath upon the skin.
Each one I cradle, pure and light,
A single soul against the night.
I’ve wept to feel a thread cut short,
Or watched it fray without support.
But still I spin, I do not rest—
The world depends upon this quest.
My sisters wait, they count and shear,
But I begin what draws them near.
And though my fingers never still,
I sometimes pause upon a thrill—
A thread that hums with something rare,
A glint of song, a rebel’s prayer.
And in those strands, however few,
I glimpse what mortals choose to do.
So live, but know the thread is spun,
A start is made, a course begun.
Yet how it twists, and how it grows—
Is more than even Clotho knows.
© 2025
The Royal Octopus 