The face of death

Something I threw together about facing the possibility of death through illness

I stand there, still

Vision blurred through all the tears

It's cold, It's dark, it's desolate

And I'm shaking

I cant stop shaking

Knife to my back

Ticking clock

And fear runs through my bones

I don't know what to do

What do you do

When the hand that grips that knife is your own?

And the clock hanging over your head stops ticking?

Who do you blame?

Will it ever stop ticking?