Clotho's lover is a WOMAN;
a white cloth sprouting crimson beads seeps across her neck
- it serves as a reminder that omens are all things beautiful.
The woman loves and hates and bleeds enough for two entire heads; she eats twice her mother's weight, her fattened heart spills out in watercolour rudiments.
She gently nudges her audience into her installations,
and hangs its flesh reduced to sculpture onto strings stretched out from balcony to ceiling - it ripples with experience of things large and also something more?
Destiny's lover cannot be lesser to a contradiction.
Draped, she is, in golden robes, and she adorns herself in vines laced with stolen adoration; so trembling Clotho weeps for the beauty of the world, as in a distant, crowded time a blade meddles with her lover's swollen skin.
In her eyes she wonders at a skyline of memories so linear; a city flattened into an abyss by reflective hatred of the universe, only understood by beings insofar finite, that love the greater father they cannot, lest He trickle down His stars to drown them in His endless Cosmos.
She weeps, for there is nothing more to give, for she cannot exist to be other than everything and nothing all at once.
And so, Destiny tears the world out through a gaze so foreign yet belonging to her own, and rips her spleens apart to feast the woman who demands to bear a collar made of pearls born from every single universe and also every other thing.
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