I have been cut down from this noose around my neck, begging for my breath, longing for my death, siphoning my life through its small cutting fibers, the sound of my gasps are still in the air still beckoning for the snap, I can feel the reaper tapping on my shoulder as he fingers the blade of his scythe, "fear the reaper" he whispers to me, I scream as the little door under me opens and I drop like a rock, the surprise immense, as I hung there with a burning length around my neck, to my shock I fell from this rope with a thud as I struck the ground, what freed me from the grave to which the rope was the key, love I think, as the rope was fear, and hate, and the knife that it was cut by love pure love, what being put fear into deaths eyes I do not know but I will love it for all my days.
