By the Will of Chaos,
The Yarn of Fate is held by Primus Consequentia,
While its threads of Power are drawn out
By all those who Exist,
Criss crossing and interlocking,
They form the very fabric of their own Fate
Without knowing.
The material Itself is a mystery to mortals,
Timeless and beyond space It exists,
Stronger than diamond and softer than silk,
Appearing Nightly Black to an ordinary mind.
But truly a prism of countless colours,
Remaining incomprehensible, for It is what
Comprehends,
In its inevitable grasp, piercing all souls with
Her gentle needle of Desire.
The lines of thread made of Pure Intelligence,
Reach back to that bundled source,
Which Consequentia dearly holds.
The only thing She is attached to,
Her own essence is intertwined with that
Intelligence.
Forming a spun thread of balance and beauty,
Its Folding Fabric forming dimensions,
And Its knits and knots creating Laws,
Of Reality.
The only thing She ever loves,
For the balanced sewing of Her Better-Half,
Makes Her only True image so embroidered.
When is it that the outcome of our Fate is decided?
Is it by the power bound movement of our free will?
Or when we insult that thread in hurt of the needle?
Is that when Consequentia cuts and casts our freedoms
into The Void?
Or is it the Yarn itself, in its own mission to create
That only True image?
Seemingly wasting away itself without cost,
Remaining only true to Its Beholder – Consequence?
Fret not my friend,
For your desire for Destiny’s Embrace could be,
Your fateful demise.
Seeking escape or detachment is folly with this
All-Pervasive thread.
Stay True to your own fabric and fibre
And cross not Fear with Free.
There is a Natural Order to this weaving,
By the Witness of The Void,
We’ll see.