Like grass before the scythe we fall
and from our lives we fade.
The clock that counts life is just down the hall,
and it’s pendulum is the blade.

Never stir, never feel,
never open long-closed eyes.
Never fear, what was never real,
never true, never wise.

What is lost is never found,
and what is found is never seen.
What is seen would never be,
if that blade were not as keen.

If that blade didn’t whisper, now,
and if it didn’t kill,
if only someone knew how,
or what the blade would will.

No one can avoid it,
and very few can hear,
at midnight, a candle’s, desperate lit,
and the blade is seen in the mirror.