Upon the edge of hidden worlds,
I am temptress to my own,
Endless abandon in abundance,
In this loss I call home.

It's called subconsciousness,
Subject only to abstract,
I am witness and betrayer,
It recoils, reacts,
In a way of profound precision,
Butterfly incision.

Winged whim,
I got lost,
But was found again,
Within.

Shadow like blood,
Dripped from my finger tips,
Down the length of my hand,
From where the metal slips,
And digs,
Finding oil,
I react,
Recoil.

I'm bleeding,
I was meant to,
I didn't mean it,
That wasn't true.

Butterfly incision,
Madness precision,
I unravel,
Recoil,
Rebound,
And boil.

I am the blood of a shadow,
Whose door I dare knock,
Who has granted me its time,
But it ticks,
And it tocks.

It's fate,
Were fate death
So kindly seen,
And I,
Puppet to the piece,
***** and unclean,
Dance a pirouette,
Every step,
I forget,
The value of self,
The face or the hand,
Second sided shelf,
Where we understand,
No one knocks,
While time ticks,
While time tocks.

I drift and slip,
With every drop from my finger tips,
And stare at death while it smiles,
Bleeding teeth and ****** lips,
Winged whim
And a moments while.

A twist and turn,
Contortion spin and contended twirl,
Falling silent and forever,
Upon the edge of hidden worlds.