Of Fate

The threads glimmer
tying us together
little golden filaments
reaching out
reaching in

they tangle
for we
are nothing more
than dogs on leashes
skipping in circles

sometimes they knot
for better
for worse
in sickness
and in health

sometimes they knot 
but we don't notice
until it is cut
our end flying free 
but still held down with that little
bit left entwined bleeding gold

sometimes the threads
become matted
ugly snarls
but we think nothing of them
because what is a snarl
to someone who's never seen a bow?