Poem By Sophia White
What I dread is the knife behind my back
And the way I grip it, with knuckles pale,
Waiting for the perfect time to attack
Considering no other tide or tack,
And cringing through a gossamer veil.
Half reveling in the anticipation,
Half dreading the time so doomed to fall.
What a dark and strange sensation
This blend of horror and elation,
This puzzle of love and murderous gall.
How I dread the knife, the hand,
The inevitability of falling tears.
Fate lays claim with a fiery brand
And destines all to fall or stand,
To live a moment, die for years.
And I wonder, was it I?
Who chose the fate, or fate chose me.
Is freedom even worth the try?
After all, at last I’ll die
And naught shall mean my destiny.
There’s little use in thinking deep.
I know not the paths of time,
Nor what secrets Fate may keep.
What is life but one blind leap
We poets brave through tear-stained rhyme?