In twilight’s clutch, where hope decays, The blade’s cold edge lights bitter days. It splits the skin, a crimson bloom, Each cut a step toward deeper gloom.No sound escapes this hollow chest, Where pain alone disturbs the rest. The scars weave tales of silent cries, A map of grief no soul descries.The mirror shows a stranger’s face, Marred by the lines of self-disgrace. Each wound a vow to never heal, A truth too raw, too sharp to feel.The blood pools slow, like ink of night, It stains the floor, devours the light. No voice can break this endless fall, The heart’s own cage entombs it all.Through sleepless hours, the shadows taunt, Their whispered lies forever haunt. Each slice a fleeting, cruel control, Yet chains grow tighter round the soul.No dawn will pierce this blackened veil, Just echoes of a life too frail. The blade’s last song, a final breath, Sings softly of a dance with death