I am now as wheat before her sickle,
Sinister and splintered scarred with mortal notches,
the blade falls, never fickle
my squelching end lies in the path of the whistling vorpal.
Sheathed in her sonorous syllables she
climbs a fatal octave, hands actively swinging
my capillaries now twitching, I pay my fee
to listen to the ballad of Atropos, lilting and stinging.
The vale profound became an emerald Styx as
the solitary ferrywoman rowed,
My vision swam, eyes seeking a point which to fix,
Though she’d no boat, over to me she gently flowed
Her sonata of sorrow bade me feel a shudder,
the closing note matched my heart’s final stutter.