The Arid Fields.

The wind no longer carries my name.
The howls and hoots are silent.
Dawn lay still, thick covered in bloodied snow.
An age has passed.

Whorderves

We may twist the hand of fate,
And chew off the arm that feeds you.
Perhaps I, now here seated.
In all my ill, am not a worthy host.

Where the teacup shatters...

"Fate and circumstance have returned us to this moment when the teacup shatters"...

For Dinner...

The transition is...
So simple.
So slight.
So precise. 

Je suis le Christ, perdu.

I am the ungrateful bastard Son.
The sundered puss of a God.
Spat into the lecherous cunt of a commoner.
And as my Father absent in heart.

Fate -- Just an observation

I've accepted that I may well one day  go to Hell. It wasn't an easy thing to do. More so that my own children may come to the same realization. Still it's something I've made peace with.