The memory sticks like a shard of glass.

A choice she made that was meant to last.

But it just shattered, and the pieces fell.

And carved a hollow where her courage fell.

Now every doorway feels a frame for a trap.

Every potential, a looming collapse.

So she picks up the cup, with a trembling hand…

…to let the leaves command.

Chaos to order,

in shadowy shapes,

She read in the tea leaves, to find her own fate,

Deducing the symbols,

of futures ahead,

but all of these riddles, they made her forget,

That she is the weaver,

who weaves her own web,

of strands made of maybe she span into thread.

The cards are kinder than hindsight's glare.

Their judgment is vague, a truth she can bear.

The I Ching's lines, the planets' cold dance,

They offer the solace of happenstance.

"It wasn't my failure, it was written in stars."

A prison of fate with comfortable bars.

She studies the patterns to quiet the sound…

…of her own heart's pounding.

Chaos to order,

in shadowy shapes,

She read in the tea leaves, to find her own fate,

Deducing the symbols,

of futures ahead,

but all of these riddles, they made her forget,

That she is the weaver,

who weaves her own web,

of strands made of maybe she span into thread.

And the tools aren't evil, they're mirrors of mind.

They show you the answers you're hoping to find.

But she's looking for proof that the path is pre-set.

A divine permission to stifle regret.

To never again have to stand on the brink…

…and be the one choosing the stone on which to sink.

*I am the weaver…*

*I am the weaver…*

*I am the weaver… who is afraid of the thread.*

Chaos to order,

in shadowy shapes,

She reads in the tea leaves, to find her own fate,

Deducing the symbols,

of futures ahead,

but all of these riddles, she *chooses* to forget,

That she is the weaver,

who weaves her own web,

of strands made of maybe she span into thread.