Μοῖραι/Οδικο εργο

I've followed certain birds and mapped out the stars,

Scattered about cards, bones, and cups of tea,

ran down each worn path laid in front of me,

as if guided by the deft hand of destiny,

But every destination is connected by roads,

and all of those roads are littered with signs,

and perfectly painted arrows and lines,

are they instruments by which each Moirai divines?

For every path that has guided me effectively,

several more have led me astray,

paved with such intent, or perhaps, it only felt that way,

each step a gradual descent into self-fulfilling dismay.

In our human folly, we scour for patterns,

even when there are none to be found,

we wish to be intrinsically bound,

to the fabric of life as the threads are wound,

we scan the contents and names of the chapters,

try our best to read ahead,

proclaiming our imminent victory in love if we see the color red,

or a series of repeated numbers as a warning from the dead.

Do you see this unlikely coincidence before us?

What would the oracles say?

Could I turn my head and look away?

Let these threads come loose and the fabric fray?