The wind has stopped,
the woods are still.
Snowflakes are coming down hard –
like shards of white thunder.
My heartbeat is ticking off
the ebb and flow of my life.
I pull the beast of my manhood
out of its lair.
It lies in my hand flaccid and shrivelled –
a stumpy story of self-reduction.
Slice by slice –
- like tiny bricks of flesh and blood –
I build the shrine of my art.
The mortar of pain
binds the days of agony.
Michelangelo and Leonardo
painted joy and beauty
with keen eyes and bristly brushes.
I sculpt torment.
My blade is dull.
Nov 9, 2016
Nov 9, 2016 at 11:31 PM UTC
The wind has stopped,
the woods are still.
Snowflakes are coming down hard –
like shards of white thunder.
My heartbeat is ticking off
the ebb and flow of my life.
I pull the beast of my manhood
out of its lair.
It lies in my hand flaccid and shrivelled –
a stumpy story of self-reduction.
Slice by slice –
- like tiny bricks of flesh and blood –
I build the shrine of my art.
The mortar of pain
binds the days of agony.
Michelangelo and Leonardo
painted joy and beauty
with keen eyes and bristly brushes.
I sculpt torment.
My blade is dull.
This is actually a lyric to a song with the same title I recorded in my home studio. You can listen to it here: https://soundcloud.com/coolgatch/my-blade-is-dull