What I dread is the knife behind my back
And the way I grip it, with knuckles pale,
Waiting for the perfect time to attack
Considering no other tide or tack,
And cringing through a gossamer veil.
Half reveling in the anticipation,
Half dreading the time so doomed to fall.
What a dark and strange sensation
This blend of horror and elation,
This puzzle of love and murderous gall.