Time flies, indeed,
like an arrow.
Circling itself
in knots.

Arrowheads
are the needles
of present.

Shafts of thread
that they
weave with
are us.

The archers
who shoot
are our fates.
The tapestry’s
fabric is God.

What is
Death then?
In truth..
really nothing.
Where
our string has
run out,
we thread not.