Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
Where the devil if not here In the room with me. Surprised In the kitchen I slide The chef's knife Far back on the counter To hide Lest she loose control lost Again, else Might become real, that image Now swimming In her own soup, Of a chromium-vanadium blade Gleaming, swinging In glorious swoop Home to this chest or head, Imagining it dead, Tainted crimson. Not the first time I could be a toreador Fending off his bull With nearby chair To save flesh from the goring Of its horns, On the way to salvation At the door. Still, animal rage Stands between instrument And shields awaiting at table As they are meant. A lamb, I once used my hand And it hurt When steel first broke skin. Tears weren't First from pain, but shock Life was so real and cruel. Since then the whys Have grown with our lives. One or other medication Will fail to stop the sensation. Now, my life's exhaustion is In pondering the question: Can the coward present neck As easy offering and end it, Or continue cowardice, Facing the goddess Conspired to destroy What once was me.
0
Oct 18, 2009
Oct 18, 2009 at 8:27 PM UTC
Shiiva's Daughter
Where the devil if not here In the room with me. Surprised In the kitchen I slide The chef's knife Far back on the counter To hide Lest she loose control lost Again, else Might become real, that image Now swimming In her own soup, Of a chromium-vanadium blade Gleaming, swinging In glorious swoop Home to this chest or head, Imagining it dead, Tainted crimson. Not the first time I could be a toreador Fending off his bull With nearby chair To save flesh from the goring Of its horns, On the way to salvation At the door. Still, animal rage Stands between instrument And shields awaiting at table As they are meant. A lamb, I once used my hand And it hurt When steel first broke skin. Tears weren't First from pain, but shock Life was so real and cruel. Since then the whys Have grown with our lives. One or other medication Will fail to stop the sensation. Now, my life's exhaustion is In pondering the question: Can the coward present neck As easy offering and end it, Or continue cowardice, Facing the goddess Conspired to destroy What once was me.
robert-zanfad
Written by
Oct 18, 2009
Oct 18, 2009 at 8:27 PM UTC
Request permission to use this poem