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ㅤ  ㅤㅤ    NYX: THREE FATES: (112.)
ㅤㅤㅤㅤ C. 411–407 / PERFORMED 

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Whether you answer or not, I shall interpret your hush as a caress. Mother, Oh Mother.. Your whereabouts are written that swallows the sun’s last boast. Ravenous cries of the things that turn in the dust, rumbustious winds that trouble the shingles—I have learned. I sit at the sill, a gem of your own, and watch the scum of day slough away into yours. I offer it as gratitude, though I am merely the one you brought into your world for a while—a guest in your endless, so fold. Mother, is it true Zeus himself appeases his thunder when your burnoose begins to slacken? If he is so afraid, then herein lies my kismet to observe. Permit me; Your Heir, Your blessed children.. to take the harbor behind the wing of your night. As a blight clings to a greater shadow.    ㅤㅤ
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ㅤㅤ𝐵𝐴𝑁𝐼𝑆𝐻  𝑇𝐻𝐸 𝐶𝐴𝑅𝐸𝑆  𝑇𝐻𝐴𝑇 𝐺𝑅𝐴𝑊𝐿
     ㅤ 𝐺𝐼𝑉𝐸𝑅  𝑂𝐹  𝑇𝐻𝐸 𝑆𝐼𝐿𝐾  𝑇𝐸𝐴𝑅𝐼𝑁𝐺.
 

Mother, you birthed from your own fathomless self such a brood—Hypnos with drowsy poppies, stern Thanatos with merciful finality, the three fates who whirl the kismet on loom. You are the family of gods, the matriarch of blight insomuch that, great mother, hear this. When the last prussian blue bleeds from the sky and your reign is declared by the first, bold star, hear this prayer.. I do not query for brief ones or a plea for dawn’s hastening. I ask you only to recognize me as a part of yours—in your eternal, star-dusted mind, necessary exhalation of your perennial night. Permit me fears scatter like leaves before the grace of your chariot, permit me in the profound truth that I am, and always shall be, a child of your sumptuous and endaunt dark.



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