His blade
is a stainless mirror
with edges tempered
to bend and breathe
a mortal whisper.

It cuts perfectly inside
the one who crosses the night,
restlessly tearing its blinding veil
for a glimpse of tomorrow's light.

The wanderer sleeps
with the enemy within,
ready to pierce his life
in a single dream

and so he enters —unafraid,
the endless doors of undoing,
for all that empties into the blade
is a lightness of his own becoming.

Deep the wounds may be
yet he never bleeds;
His blade is an undying breath
when Death follows beyond him.

His eyes were headlights at midnight
The unexpected dawning of a new world
Snatched away as suddenly as it came
Leaving in its wake,
The blinding stare of blue-black patches
Staining the asphalt like spilled paint.
Oh, my dear,
You flew, too fast, too high,
the reckless wantonness of youth
grasping through your wings,
The way her hands once ran through your hair,
what do you have left
But the drag of gravity,
The silver blade of the scream
Just before
The fall.

like the blood that seeps
through the holes n gaps in my skin
i patch it up
with paper and tape
but what lays underneath
calls every blade to my skin
i try again
to keep it away
but it causes a hunger that's impossible to satisfy
in any other way

but maybe that's a story for another day.