Tainted by the Fates' condemnation,

The gold strings fade as they are cut

And spiral graciously into a plummeting decline.

They claim this destiny is inevitable;

That Death's process is systematic—

In spite of its feigned spontaneity—

Similar to the Fates' cursed scissors.

Snip

Snip

Snip

Wounds that only time may heal

(if it so pleases Time to do so)

Though the blood rush shall never cease;

Regardless of its composition

Crimson mortal or golden ichor,

We all bleed the same.

We all hurt the same.

(after all, planting forget-me-nots will only provide more flowers.

eternal remembrance is whimsical delusion.

the flowers shall remain years after one's passing.)

These strings, when solitary, are fine to the point of invisibility.

Together, the loss of them is grievous,

The depossession of them strips away slivers of one's soul,

Fracturing irrevocably the all-too-fragile concept of identity.

Many of us fear our inevitable death,

Though some, quite rightly, fear being forgotten by the rest.