The Blade

 

The Blade

Hangs by his hip with floods

dripping quick, red runoff.

 

Digs through

crevices deeper,

canyon’s clearer,

causeways crooked

and catwalks crowded.

 

Creeps like a snake

through the furrowed field,

hiding the soil and roots of soul.

 

Takes the life from where it sprung and

springs

the crimson fountain left as evidence to keep him hung.

 

Hang, guilty blade.

Hang, just as you did by the hip with floods.