atropos

We are nothing but puppets
Controlled by thin, feeble strings
In the grasp of their long, delicate fingers

Twirling us around their fingers
Carelessly creasing and bending the thread
Toying with its structure

They take out their rusty, weathered scissors
And with a swift snip, our soul crosses the threshold
It steps onto the boat on the Styx

Splashing into the water 
Sinking down into the depths 
Leaving it all behind.