the knife slips,
oh so swiftly,
and silent.
cold and deadly,
it slips,
into my breast.
to cut so dull.
blood,
ruby-red,
wells up,
from my chest.

can you see it?
this red froth upon my lips?
the river which moses did seek to imitate,
pouring forth from my chest?
can you see it?
I clutch at the handle,
glad to be free,
finally,
from this world.
glad to have a last
final
excuse
to collapse
onto my knees.
can you see it?
this bloody froth
upon my lips?

no, of course you can't.
for it is no more real
then this dark knife
protruding from my breast.

why, then, does my chest ache....
as from an old wound, long half-healed?

I continue to fall
forward
onto my side
one last
parting smile
upon my
red-stained lips.

tam.

Penned by my hand on the 13th of Valnuary, in the year 269 AF.