Weaver's lament

Upon a throne of star-entangled thread, Where time’s frail loom in silent ruin lies, She sits—the dread Oracle, half-god, half-bride— Her eyes the void where dead galaxies hide. No mortal hand may touch her silver hair, Nor tongue confess the secret of her name; Yet when the Veil grows thin and Realms decay, She sings—and Chaos trembles at her flame. Her voice, a hymn of spider-silk and sighs, Weaves dreams into the marrow of the night; Men hear, and follow through the veiled skies, Beguiled by beauty, blind to coming blight. She dances where the fractured dimensions bleed, A huntress draped in sorrow and in grace; Her prey—those proud who dare to twist the creed Of cosmic law—she toys with, face to face. She spins their reason into gossamer, Whispers their sanity to tattered lace; Laughs as their souls in gilded torment err, Then draws the final thread—without a trace. Beware the song that drifts through midnight air, So sweet it seems the stars might weep to hear; For though she guards the Balance with her care, Her mercy wears a mask—and feeds on fear. O Weaver! Sing not near our fragile shore— Thy lullaby is death in silken guise. We mortal moths would live a day, not more, Than meet thy gaze—and perish in thy eyes.