The Norn
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neath the tree sat a norn
one of three, shears in hand
crowned in nature’s floral fare
and wisps of ancient silvered hair
she has no care of god or man
no interest in some scriptured plan
bad and good have equal weight
when measured in the hands of fate
haggard with majestic grace
timeless lines crisscross her face
she’ll give no clue, no reason why
just cut your line when time to die
Copyright © Marcus Whitnell | Year Posted 2023
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