"Your fate was made from the start," he spoke in a riddle.
Each word is alone and disorganized, as an undone puzzle.
And the knife in his hand, to the right, and the purpose it had,
loosely held by a man who had recently gone mad.

"From the start?" the victim could only reply,
with his only thought the contemplation of how he will die.
Fear had conquered him; bought him, and held him.
But that was not his final mad mistake; the man was already dim.

"Everything is for a single reason," the assailant fit the knife where it has always been.
"Fate is neither ***** nor is it clean."
"It is neither late nor is it early."
"This the one truth we know truly."

"Time is inevitable; it makes slaves of us all."
"Your death is undeniable. Rebellion serves nothing but to stall."
The knife felt like a sheet of ice over his old his heart,
and the last thing he whispered before he died, "From the start?"