Lonely steel blade, on skin, slides
by Robert L. Bixler III
As the forgotten child weakly hides.
Cold, soft brush of damnation
Brought by soul-capturing lamentation.
With head raised to the beautiful skies,
The child realizes the truth in all lies.
Compliments dim the subtle undertones
Of what is observed beyond dry bones.
Warm flowing red liquid of life preserve
Fills the void in the tile cracks, never deserve.
Fist to mirror, destroy distasteful reflection
That burns wet eyes with fires of self-recognition.
Night falls, lit room gives to a shadow’s creep.
Cornered in bloody tile, the child can only weep
As glass hands raise high self-ordainment’s tool.
Heaven cries as innocent blood begins to pool.
The child falls to the floor with starry eyed gaze.
Social seclusion and still heart blur to blood moon haze.
With lasting breathe, the child sings joyous
Notes of hellish escape in death’s final chorus.