Weaver.

Who is the weaver of our fate?
Perhaps it's a parent or lover,
That guide us to something great,
To where, we ourselves, discover.

Nay, some will say,
It is my deity on high,
Who saves my soul that prays,
In promised eternal life on the day I die.

Maybe it's the far away cosmos,
Who will guide us forward,
In our times of woe,
And through deepest torture.

Ah! Others shout,
It's the crones of myth,
Without a doubt,
Cutting the string, the final stitch.

One might argue,
That nothing decides at all,
To say it's us to imbue,
A series of things coincidental.

But I know *I* am the weaver,
Of all the standalone moments,
That makes me more eager,
For something more potent.

With my own hands I shape,
My life, my actions,
A most beautiful dreamscape,
Of happiness and attractions.

Therefore, I propose,
We weave our own threads,
Our own symphonies we compose,
So we live, love and forge ahead.