The Norns weren't kind
When they wove our fate
You were gone too soon
While I was left behind
To slowly fade

She’s standing, pressed against the cold wall,
Trampled.
She’d be crying now, but there’re no tears.
They’re lost.
There are so many people around, but not a soul,
Just robots.
She awaits no gifts from fate,
She’s like a ghost.
She accepted her script a long time ago.
She’s playing.
She’d like to try a different life, but
She can’t.
It’ll be like before, she will be back.
She’s still feeling.
She will just live and she will await,
Sentenced in full, not half.

If these tainted deeds and misgivings are etched in my blood,
Then please, take them to me like a maple tree.
Tap into my veins and drain the ichor.
Let its sticky black residue confine your lungs to heavy, heaving breaths.
Then, you can tell me the weight I carry.

If sickness is pre-determined, and my mind is meant to bend and break,
Then pierce my eye with your pick and hammer.
Chisel ego into id and supersize its purpose.
Until my destiny is marbled like the rarest steak,
Cook me until I am less raw.
Like unforgiving nerves exposed to the cold, slow thaw.

Fate does not choose me. I deny it the grace of a salutation.
I choose my destiny by way of destination. Of my choosing.
See, I like to spin the globe, throw a dart upon a map,
And roam where the tip lands.
To carve an unbeaten path.
I am my own master, beholden to none other.
No god, petty demon, or fallen angel.
Not a pious man, nor a shrewd woman could tame the force within me.
I am the whirlwind.