Glinting in the sunless light,
Cold blade looks on with cruel sight.
Lines of red streak my proffered hands,
Helpless veins devoured by greedy bands.
Bleeding and torn but with no relief,
Instead tears flow as if without belief.
I question myself if it is wise
To sever to almost an inch of my cord of life.
It was about the choice of pain,
Never a choice of whether the action was wise or right,
Even though I knew that it proved that I was in a bad plight.
Loss of control was imminent,
Something that I dreaded but still faced with merriment.
Control freaks are the order of the day,
Since order prevails in chaos in a way.
Dark thoughts looming ahead,
Gloomy skies cast eerie shadows over the dead.
And I walking as one of them,
Regret nothing of the choice to bend to them.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.