When It Dies

There’s a reflection in the razor knife,
A shadow of a former life.
The blood that bleeds its crimson lies
And seduces one until it dies.
There’s magic in this razor knife
That tells the tales of woe and strife.
The shadow of an empty head
The voices consume until its dead.
Empty eyes that are too far gone
A whisper of a soundless song.
A voiceless bird that cries “goodbye”
But has no feathers when it dies.