A blank page beneath the moon,
Where shadows dance, the night in tune.
The forest whispers soft and low,
Of secrets buried long ago.

A knife lies still on ancient stone,
Its silver edge, cold and alone.
Untouched by time, it waits in dark,
A silent promise, sharp as spark.

So keen, so sharp, it cuts the air,
A tool of fate, a whispered dare.
In the silence, it holds its weight,
A waiting edge to seal one’s fate.

In blankness, mystery resides,
And in the knife, the truth abides.
Sharp as the night, deep as the grave,
It waits for those both bold and brave.