The Cold Blade’s Lullaby

Did I not will the dark to take me whole,
and carve escape with trembling, broken hands?
The crimson thread, I drew it from my soul:
a vow etched deep where no one understands.
They spoke of rest, of light beyond the pain,
of sacred arms to catch a falling breath—
yet silence met me, iron-cold and plain,
a tomb of thought more cruel than even death.
The blade, it sang—a lullaby so sweet,
its kiss a chill that promised quick release,
but left me here where shadows never sleep,
where guilt denies the wounded heart its peace.
Too soon, I fell for death’s deceitful tune—
And slit my soul beneath a silver moon.