The Nurturing Knife

After my final curtain call
when the stage lights dim,
what will life hold to see,
at the end of my show
when the ink has dried,
what will become of me?

Clutching crumbling pen
between trembling fingers
of a shaky, uncertain hand,
is that really my end;
no more words to impart
or silent solace to send?

Feel the clutching claws
of the Reaper’s raven,
so near, so near!
Have I naught to behold
but this cold dark
and deep dread fear?

Fading memories
of each painful slice
of a tearful, tormented life,
a world so cold; devoid of light,
but the mocking glint of
the nurturing knife?