Sunday, July 13, 2008

Hammer Into Anvil

Calloused fingers softly traced the cutlass curves of a spine-
"Are ye right t'go to port?" he squawked
as grassy feathers floated like a snowfall overhead,
rising from the noose around his neck.
Meanwhile, my parallel eyes just fell paralyzed
(cold as steel, but stained nonetheless)
towards the wasted metal shavings that laid
waiting on that hard and heavy breast
that once had nourished me and forged
a life but ever since turned stiff and numb.

I'd have told him, "I don't know," right then,
but a weapon is never meant for words.

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