There was nothing changed or nothing alive.
Once it came to shed light.
And truth trickled in.
Surrounding that night only hushed silence could be spoken
Between them ever again.
If only that axe was sharper and my skills.
Weren't a boy's instead a man held that weapon.
It wouldn't have happened.
Ever.

Choosing to die rather than watch.
Matthew rose to feet unsupported by vigor.
Wielding a simple woodcutter's axe.
Turned butcher's cleaver.
His foe turned, pivoted and let go of lever.
That wood exploded.
Its head fell into the marsh.
He fished for it but found instead.
A blade by his head.

Matthew didn't watch by choice.
It was that shard of queer unwashed civility
That pushed his face towards her, as her audience.
Unwilling and unforgiven.
Even by himself.

By now earth's turn.
Had brought a stoic ally out from hiding.
Its mortified whiteness remained unchanged.
Before this world.
It had no reason to urge a man.
To smile.
Luminous rays of borrowed fame.
Came to bring perverted acclaim.
To steel soo twisted it didn't deserve a name.

He meant well.
But aimed poorly.
That head of re-purposed iron.
Struck naught but air,
Beaconing a second strike,
To reach back came natural and true.
But blue was gloves upon hands ensnared by spear training.
Scented by wine.
They blocked in time to send.
Boy of hair tinted cherry red.
To his knees instead.

Matthew moved he didn't run.
Those weren't legs it was air.
Rushing faster than he didn't care.
If his life remained here or there.
Once his axe was raised above shoulder height.
He didn't have the strength.
To set it down again.

Moving couldn't happen.
She was struck by a life that wasn't.
Isn't, it can't be.
Said a chin angled and raised beneath tip of sword.
Odd cords of her own liquid, a red mystery.
Ran down where her sleeve should be.
Holding it for an answer didn't work.
A second sound pulled out a dirk.
Asked politely for this one.
Help yourself.