The knife,
The wrist.
One cuts the other,
The other one bleeds.
Slowly and painfully,
The red liquid flows out,
The sunken face turning pallid,
The wrist getting sticky,
With hot.
Red.
Blood.
The knife, the razor, the box cutter
Is victorious
The blade has claimed another victim
Tears cascade down sharp cheeks
The once sparkling eyes,
Now dull with sorrow
The end grows near
The red of the blood contrasting with the silver of the blade
The blood that rightfully belongs inside the victim
Who is holding the knife
To release their life essence
And to slowly fade away
Into the coffin
Into the ground
France has fallen
The knife has risen
With death and destruction following in its wake.