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His triceps stretch as he lifts the keen knife,
its blade is white in the flash of the air,
in that moment before he takes your life,
you see the beast of life in death so fair:
There's a geometry to light on knife,
a spectrum of colors across the blade;
his arm is taut – every tendon in strife
with the death that is time, the fact of age:
You will have no children, you have no wife;
you make peace with yourself: you had no one
who called you father, but under the knife,
each fragment of time is your creation:
The knife is perfect in its downward thrust;
its beauty soothes you as your life is crushed.

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