Standing on tiptoes,

The cool liquid of red beneath my feet.

I await the man I call my master

To bid me farewell to the next on my list,

The list of white tissue that will forever scar

The beating of my pulse.

That which he seeks I shall bring forth.

For he is my savior and yet,

The fear inkling in the bottom of my carcass is

As imminent as the crimson

Dripping from my finger tips.

Like the wall of grey between

White and black

I make my home.

With my voice trailing behind me

In the form of a scythe.

With my eyes cast about

In the form of a sickle.

With my lips parted with a whisper

In the form of a shear.

With my ears straining for an echo

Of a cry only I can hear

In the form of a lance.

Last with my touch,

Sending the notch of a guillotine clattering

And severing the chain

Bounding my neck

With copper barbs.

The arrival of a biting wind

Sending forth a command

Of despotic reverence.

With not a second

Of hesitation

The sloshing of cruor ceases

And the churning of a handle

Begins to play.

And when I dance to the tune of the music box,

The red string of fate,

Frayed to the last coil,

Shall be broken.