A fateful needle guides the fate of man

Wavering in place at all the turns of his life

Then plunging into the path that he has planned

Wetting threads to weave into a map of strife

A segmented line leading to journey’s end

Changing direction now and again

Always careful never to offend

The hand that guides the needle in

The ruffled oceans and wrinkled lands

That man may view before he falls

All placed carefully in the seamstresses’ hands

As to the last of his days he crawls

North, south, east, west

Ever choosing new directions

Hoping he always acts his best

Tracing over all the patched sections

A withered hand shall cut the thread

Sending the man to eternity’s breast

Where all the living, soon to be dead

Are by that needle cursed or blessed