A razor slips quietly through flesh, like a boat through the waves,
And liquid life is wasted upon the filthy floor.
He pleads for Death to visit him soon,
But ‘tis no knock upon the gray door.

He strains to feel what he seeks, like the suns gentle rays,
And so begins to scar his young wrist,
That he may bathe and bask,
In an endorphin fueled, hazy mist.

Warm, coppery, dripping, sanguine blood,
Coats his mangled, misused arm.
His head now hung in anguish, sobbing,
With no sweet release left to violently farm.

A gentle, guiding Father’s hand,
Informs him of his wrong,
For the first time since he lost his hope,
His mind rings clear, piercing, and shrill as a gong.

The barbarous darkness dissipated by the Light,
Suddenly his persecuted soul shines bright,
And from it is lifted Blight,
A boy is no more shrouded in the fiendish Night.