fate?

O Moirae!
Did you submerge my thread in tar
and hand it gently to the executioner's wife?
Does destiny dine in a truckstop Midwest,
drenched in tobacco airs, this blackened life?
The tired days and working ways interest me no more,
yet the heavy lids and hammer held be oft remembered lore.

And, Sweet Hammer,
Do I wield you as Peter, or as Maxwell,
for peace, or to implement dire fear?
And, Hammer, is life a giant mechanism,
within which I be a mere gear?
If so the stage and fictitious sage be vagrants of my mind,
and for to prosper and for wellness I do devote my time...