Blood drops drip from both hands of the clock,
I notice, it's not been moving;
The thin blade edge gleams,
Ready to rip red slashes on a sheet;
Someone will stir for love,
And then bleed slow death tonight.

It could have been sunshine,
A path tumbling along green mountainside,
Or a bird taking flight;
Or, what if, the night was touched by a playful wink of moonlight?

Could I perhaps once be free,
Of the magic that lines my fingertips,
That throws dark clouds upon the morning,
The crash of a landslide down the mountain,
And the wail of hurt into the bird's call?

Could I find, if I tried, a story that ends in clasped hands,
And finding little rooms in each other's eyes?

I notice, the blood clock hasn't moved,
The sound of falling droplets drowns the ifs,
And ticks over time;
I wield my weapon,
And skin gives like butter.