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.