In the darkened depths of the witching hour, I shed a secret tear, It drips down past my memories, Resides with the festering fear. Beneath the withered sheets of paper; Marked with words unsaid, The scrawl, like spiders, springs to life, From the slumber of pencil lead. The critters creep, and as they rise, The merry dance begins, On spindly legs with jittery steps, And queer deceitful grins. They’re crawling over battle scars, And traipsing over blades, They’re swimming in the scarlet pools, With ruby red cascades. The glint upon the razor’s edge, Appealing to my eye, I truly could not help myself, I dared myself to cry… Accustomed as we are to tears, Do not admit defeat, The knife’s edge is a tricky place, When unsure of one’s own feet. So lock away the needles, And throw away the pins, The shame will slowly melt away, As each illusion thins. The silent song that’s sung to you, That’s so hard to resist, Does not become much sweeter, With the lyrics on your wrist. In the darkened depths of the witching hour, I banish my last tear, I cherish all my memories, Hold onto all that’s dear. Behind the dust-thick curtains There’s a cobalt midnight sky, Every star there guides the way, You’ll find them when you try.