A Poem a Day (54): Blade

It's a dark one today. I imagined a murderer and what her motivation/past might be. Cheers.

Blade

I wonder in the moment how it fits,

The twisting of this knife in this flesh

That flits and squirms, seeking an escape,

Yet none will come in this foggy gloom

Where my anger shifts like a hurricane,

Sweeping all asunder in its desperation.

Pleading with my conscience so torn

It rips, and I listen to these cries in the dark.

Unhearing, unseeing, my reaction is all,

But I feel it not, so detached as I am.

In this space in time I try to wake myself,

Yet all is lost in this sinking maelstrom.

I cannot rise

Though I seek it,

Wish it as my mind breaks.

Filling the cracks the sticky blood sweeps,

Creating a pool of red to seize the grey.

I spy my reflection seeking to pull me in.

In my protest I stand, gripping the steel edge

That ravaged him here in the silencing

In less time than it took him to be born.

Now he is gone and only I remain,

The watcher,

Contemplating.

Here the darkness plunges,

Writhing with me, caressing me,

Exhausting me until I am but an empty cage,

Yet it is also my prison and here I must stay

Uninvited, unwanted, unmuted in my desire

To kill.

Brushing the knife along the edge of my shirt

I drift slowly away, the alleyway growing shorter.

I am deaf to the rush of traffic and people walking

Who know not what lies here, breathing his last.

I feel his eyes penetrating my back, my skin,

But I will not turn to look at him again, I cannot.

In knowing I will tear apart, sense it, know it.

Walking away is the only thing I know how to do well;

My speciality

Since I was a child,

Since he left me not a child.

The curiosity is too much and I glance back at him;

He who created me in the same degree of dark,

Wrenching away my innocence, abandoning me

With the remnants of my spirit ripped in tatters.

A smile curves itself upon my face in the still breeze;

The moment dives into the ground, rooting me down

Where blackness dances in this pitch heart of mine,

But my heart is his,

Dying where my father breathes his last,

Knowing it was me who extinguished his last sigh.

So our secret will finally die as I turn into the light.

copyright Vickie Johnstone