He sits in the corner.

Silently waiting for no life.

Not he a mourner.

He watches as she takes the knife,

Promptly slitting her wrist.

Simply waiting for the blood to drain.

Although he wishes to assist,

Her soul is not yet his to gain.

Sitting here every night,

Death awaits his turn to claim.

Her slow dying light,

And her dimming flame.

Until one unlit time,

She takes too many pills.

Completing the tragic crime.

Feeling like everything stills,

Death takes his prize.