Fiddling with the Knife
The night gave me a knife,
The knife was swift and gleamed in the light;
The air in my throat escaped, leaving my lungs tight,
With no sight, no fear, I took flight.
In the bold and painless precision of a crafters plight,
The woozy rags of cloth were tied,
Making the wrong seem right.
But soft now are these hard thought,
The echo of a gamblers delight;
They say they will, they're told they wont,
Take up their tired souls and walk away from this earthen fight,
They speak till lips blister, scream till the yell is only sight;
For days stuck in the same room with a weak promise "I might, I might, I might."