Fates
three birch,
they lean tattered,
a blood of ants
on their varicose shins.
so easy to mistake
their necromancy for baptism.
their frayed crowns
for jewels and light.
i’ve seen them
flute their judgements into a storm;
and glare as one
from a wound-colored bird.
husks of leaves
shuffle beneath them,
mangled hobos,
whirlpools of sad texture,
an ongoing history of the slain.
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