the blade

the blade runs deep, the sting of its swift withdrawl

extorts cruelly the vibrant ruby creek to stain my skin

with the eternal colour of anguish

(which may dim but never vanish)

and how am I left to react

in a stark moment of bewilderment

I could crumple and scream  

I have done so before

the strength to endure is greater

than to stumble and falter

so familiar, those disenchanted shackles

that have bound my wrists so many times before

but this day, I have grown too tired of my own weakness

too furious to bear another moment in disgrace

a man whose cringing fear would dare not face

the searing, sticky, itching strife

that runs like a rusting, blunted knife

from my sternum to my stem

I will stand, for the first time

in tears yes, but joyfully wept

not of cowardice but determination

at last my foe shall know humiliation

many years from now, I will feel it

in the cold of winter, the scar will rise and swell up

and I will see the stain again as if the wound were freshly cut

once again reminded of the agony

and the blade that cut me free