The Fates of Late

a poem

Young Clotho's fingers bleed from splicing wire,
To which she solders flashing LEDs.
Her distaff sits unused beside the fire;
A homespun life, mankind, has ceased to please.
Nearby, the middle child of darkest Nyx
Uncoils the tangled strand with nimble ease
And pulls it taut against one of her sticks.
She pauses, sizing up a sleeping tot,
Then measures out and marks four score and six.
"They're getting longer; uniformly wrought,"
The eldest sister says through opened shears
--"I liked it better when they toiled and fought
And earned each of their bitter, stinging tears"--
Then cuts the cord of numb, insipid years.