The meat cleaver that's life

Life is a cleaver, heavy and sharp,

Its edge bites deep, leaving a mark.

It swings without warning, it cuts without care,

Through dreams and through moments too fragile to spare.

It carves through laughter, it slices through pain,

Shaping the losses, the lessons, the gain.

No surgeon's precision, no tender embrace,

Just cold, brutal truth, and a merciless pace.

It spares no butcher, it spares no lamb,

It cleaves through the meek and the bold where they stand.

Yet in its harshness, a strange beauty gleams,

For each cut reveals what resilience means.

The cleaver divides, but it also refines,

Exposing the marrow, the core of our lines.

Through every sharp blow, a truth is laid bare,

What’s worth the pain, and what isn’t there.

So let it swing, the cleaver of strife,

For though it may wound, it carves out your life.

And in the remains, in the scars and the bone,

You'll find the self you’ve come to own.