Crafting scissors
Gardening shears
A pizza roller
Instruments of humble vivisection
I wield, I rend, I create.
Needles and pins,
Nimble and thin,
I pierce, I pull, I close.
With measured patience
I choose my weapons:
Ink, passion, time, and wit.
An armory of precision and gut.
Boulders bruise but roll away,
Fire burns, but I'm already ablaze,
Arrows lodge shallow or all fall short,
But the cold?
It slices.
The draining thought:
Is this the end of my creation -
Is there no more?
I slowly bleed out.
10.6.17
Inktober Prompt: Sword
Rules: The poem is whatever comes out of the pen, no edits allowed.
