The Unspoken Lineage

Wings were cut and soaked in blood.

Wishes went unheard, and eyes were clothed in lace.

An ancestor's tale whispered through time, a friend well-known to all.

Few dared to speak; fewer remained.

Lips were sealed, and tongues were lost.

A war fought, never won or lost.

Hands and feet were tied, bound by thread and knots.

Against all odds, throughout the ages, the material changed and shifted to fit the whim of time

Unlike the thread, the colour remains unfazed. Continuously dyed, yet never estranged.

Reminiscent of a story, nothing specific.

A mere childhood memory.

Untold horror with a moral to learn, much like the folklores turned fairy tales.

Just like them, this tale is well taught; however, few bother to revise.

What is in the past will remain in the past; this is the device.

And yet it remains unchanged:

Scarlet, our blood may be, but red is the shade of fate.

Blood that is shed is not a notion of death.

Red stands for fate but belongs to none.

White belongs to death but stands for none.

Flowing through our veins is liquid fate.

No one's fate is to be silent, no destiny one has to abide.

The thread of death that binds us all is loose; only once will it tighten.

No one is free; all we own is a lifetime.

What is there to lose when there is nothing to gain?

After stepping inside Death's home, will you suffocate on your words once more?