She stands alone, last of the Fates, cradles the blades in her arms.
Around her in the dust lie the remnants of her other selves,
the spindle, the rod; the loom,
silent as a temple of dead gods.
The last thread, the last whisper thin echo of life,
braces her wrist like a beam of Helios
whom she met, not long ago.
The last of the Fates, last of three and loneliest of all,
drops her eyes, considers the Shears.

[Alexandra Seidel probably caught the myth and fairy tale bug while she was out in the woods one midsummer day. Meanwhile, the disease has turned her into a Rhysling-nominated poet, a writer and editor. Her first collection of stories and poems, All Our Dark Lovers, is forthcoming from Morrigan Books on Valentine’s Day 2013. Other work may be found in Mythic Delirium, Goblin Fruit, Stone Telling, and elsewhere. You can follow her on Twitter (@Alexa_Seidel) or read her blog.]