"Black string for enemies, white for a friend... blue string, unfound. No beginning, no end."
Pestilence followed the old woman with a lazy gaze, as she shuffled about in an endless haze.
"A pin to make haste, strength in the stitch, when all is dark... which string is which?" the dense skirts that hung from her wide hips swept dust into the air, causing Pestilence to sneeze.
"Tricky boy, I hear your sniffle. Was it you, who went and stole my idea of blue?"
Her sneer does not change the expression in her eyes, milky white. Yet, he knows she sees him, just as clearly as the designs she quilts in the night.
The erosion of stone, the swelling of seas. Stitch by stich, she helps the world, whatever it needs.
His eyes are amber yellow, peeking out from the bag, left by a wanderer at the end of the world.
An arraignment of supplies left unused, and now in the bag, there are but two. A cat and some TP, you'd think it a disaster. But the rolls stays unharmed, by a cat with no master.
He lays on a quilt, in his magnificent cave, a quilt made for life, giving way for the grave. Around, there are more. A quilt to bring rain, one to cause burdens, yet one will ease pain.
"Pestilence find me a nice little seat, scurry on over, but do mind my feet." Her bones crack like tress as they fall in a storm. Her voice is so friendly, for one so forlorn.
Pestilence was not called so for a blight that he carried, to the crone he represented the humanity she had buried. From now until "then" her duty was sealed.
His fur was short, half white and half black. But her hands never pet him; probably never, but at least not yet. Affection is healing, and deities don't swim in the muck of such feeling.
She spoke to him only to remember her voice, he listened in hopes of easing her nights. Two beings trapped at the end of time, not really dead, definitely not alive.
No hunger, no malice, no longing, no need. To think of a friend,
yet each found one indeed. In the now that is never, the odd pair did a job.
She stitches the ebb; he appreciates the flow. They watch on forever in histories flickering glow. It all happened so fast, but down there it felt slow.
To linear lives, unaware of the fabric that makes their life so. The birth of a child, the death of a friend. All beautiful things are designed with an end.
The Crone who is blind from all the things she can see, needs not look on a face to know all it will be. Fears, victories, and secrets are stitches she set in a time
Before the mother of a mother ever thought of her light, before her body could make babies, before her mind had that type of foresight.
The Crone knew it all, who her granddaughter will marry, the day her own daughter will crawl, and that she will never carry a baby.
All set in advance, but stitches they strech. Just not enough for justice, and rarely for romance.
No place to judge, only to do. Some comfort in reasons, played out many quilts on. But mostly the work, taking up all her thoughts. Her finger like steal, ready to stich up the plots.
And pestilence lingers, the one no one invited, yet his presence has purpose. A small wrong righted.
As the weaver of time works for all days, she is not a person. So has no familiar ways, sans the flow that her fingers carry along. Nursing the events that write our great song.
As the Eons slide by, carved out in the stones. The work that she does, nobody knows. yet, everyone does, in the joys that they carry.
Without her great gift, our lives could not be merry. For darkness and strife are threads in the bundle, the contrast and hues that give life true color.
So hang your threads high over the shelves in your mind, reaching out to honor she who is only brutal, so she may be truly kind.
This is my submission for #pic1000, as well as my first poem here on the blockchain :) Racking up some words towards #hivenano2022! Learn more about NaNoWriMo on Hive here
