Twisted ribbons of fate

tangled in the wind.

Cut by bloody hands

and bloody scissors,

never to flow straight again.

Free at last and falling fast.

Terror under the crimson sun

as the threads scatter on the road.

Streams are boiling and glaciers melting,

waterfalls bleeding lost, broken ribbons of fate.

Turning the white, pure moon into a monster,

and the blue, blue sky into black charcoal.

Dark and twisted fingers clasp the strings

and now we're a puppet of fate.



A/N: Ashelin, don't ask me if I believe in fate, because I don't know. (Don't deny it, I know that question was boiling up in your mind. D)