the blacksmith

most nights
our knives are dull
just another useless
and ineffectual tool
waiting to be
fondled and discarded
but once in a while
when the tall boy
is almost empty
you stumble upon a sharp one
hidden away
waiting to find purchase
in fresh meat
a blade that shimmers
and slips between the surface
slowly slicing down
down to the bone
down where the marrow is revealed

and in these tired and divine moments
the heart lies bare
waiting for redemption
just one simple release
from this human condition
weary and somewhat weak
we roam virtual halls
collecting memories
of obscure experiences
searching for an inconspicuous chance
at an ill-fated romance

and what do we do
when these shadow truths
are exposed to the pale light
of a midnight reflection
do we wait
wait for spring tears
to wash away our subtle sins
or do we sit
in dimly lit rooms
drinking and smoking cheap cigarettes

no, we snap dark photographs
and write mad poetry
in hopes
that our absent
and impotent gods
will remember our faces
and send us one last hint
of solid prophecy



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