The knife struck deep,
Down into my being,
It CUT you away,
Without care,
Without seeing.
It matters not,
How much I deny,
It changes little,
To refuse to cry.
The past remains,
And cannot return.
Time spins ever on,
Despite how I yearn.
Mortality is a sentence,
We are prisoners for life,
Never knowing when or where,
We may be struck by the knife
