The book is closed, the end is writ
And here I am rereading it
The words unveil with every line
A placid state, collected mind
I spare the pen, its stain of red
Allow the ink to soak instead
Into my flesh and through my bones
My skeleton has always known
That what is done within this life
May come disguised, the form - a knife
And it will lay upon your back
You may not even feel attacked
But scars will form in every place
That you have ever tried to face
The end is writ, the book is closed
So rest your eyes, you've made it home