The Queen of Fate

Needles can prick

Oxygen raptures cool blues

And life stares back

into eyes that have become accustomed

to laying in a mannequin

Allayed by involuntary ritual

and repetitive tasks

This droplet of crimson

glows as light waves flood

and as light waves become consumed

Because the red will still,

be red

The density of what it sings

remains

Its Fado begs

to be tasted, wiped,

and seen

Yet the needle

need not prick

for some carry their own Fado

that croons and trills

down

down

down

Telling stories as it too begs

to soak around and seep out of

the most secretive of rooms,

for the carrier to know

the word,

chosen

and yell out,

“Vita”

and be crowned

as bearer

Prostrate with used needles

on the sides,

given alms are made

for the one who released

the ichorous stream

that causes the Spring

to thunder

and the cosmos

to surrender

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