Verse I

I am in need of music

that would flow—

over fretful fingertips,

over bitter, trembling lips—

slow.

(Liquid-slow, like forgetting.)

Oh, for a song

to sway the dead to sleep,

to fall like water

on my head,

to cool the glow

of fevered limbs.

(To hush the red.)

Chorus I

The sound—

of a knife against the whetstone.

(Sharpen what soothes. Hone what heals.)

The sound—

of the knife cutting a throat open.

(Some songs bleed. Some silences scream.)

Verse II

There is a magic made by melody—

not of joy,

but rest.

A breath that quiets.

A heart that sinks

through fading color,

deep.

(Deeper than tears.)

To the stillness

beneath the sea,

a moon-green pool

that never speaks.

(Held. Rocked. Erased.)

Chorus II

The sound—

of a knife against the whetstone.

(Each note a blade. Each pause a scar.)

The sound—

of the knife cutting the voice open.

(This is what peace costs.)

Verse III

I do not need joy.

I need a song

that closes the eyes,

that wraps the limbs

in rhythm and sleep.

(A song like drowning, but kind.)

I am in need of music—

but not the kind that saves.

The kind that ends.

That folds the body inward.

That flows

where pain has pooled.

Final Chorus

The sound—

of a knife against the whetstone.

(This is the melody you asked for.)

The sound—

of the blade across the throat.

(This is how we rest.)