Sunday, December 9, 2012

Poem 112

The switchblade night,
quick, sharp, to the point.

Sitting, waiting, grinding out the seconds
into moments of breathless death.

A thrust into life bleeding tears
joy hate, fear, love.
Hope hanging on the click of the blade

The night folding away, extending,
and folding with unrepentant edges, 
slice and dice, pick and choose with a click of the button

Chrome heat without a reflection
of night with a temporary soul
carves through the long dead night.


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