They always fear me, speak my name
With lowered voice and quiet blame.
As though I come with scorn or spite,
To steal the soul, to snuff the light.
But I do not hunt, I do not seek,
I wait till thread grows soft and weak.
Till all that should be said is said,
And life lies down its weary head.
I hold the shears, yes—this is true—
But what I cut, I do not choose.
I do not watch with cruel delight,
I do not crave the final night.
Some go in sleep, in gentle grace,
Some in the dark, in harsh embrace.
But when the thread begins to fade,
I give it peace where none is made.
I’ve severed kings and beggars both,
The faithless, and the ones with oath.
And yet, the shears do not divide
The worth of who you were inside.
I end the song, but not the tune—
It echoes on beneath the moon.
And all I ask, as silence grows,
Is that you walked the path you chose.
So when you think of me with fear,
Remember this: I draw you near.
Not with a curse, not with regret—
But as the thread and soul reset.
©️ 2025
The Royal Octopus 