the blade of the sharp words cut thru
they slice little by little neatly, effortless
putting me down like a well donned corpse on a forensics table
the butcher’s knife chops the surviving bits of a façade
inwards in bits the doc stares at self destruction in detail
many reasons arise, forces beyond the sky, the hours that had a sun
the moon that bore the brunt of the guilt for unexplained fenomena
the emotions spiralling out – leading nowheres
in this duality who will ever win
the eternal battle of words
whose sword
slices
thy
true thee
the doc fails to fathom
and moves the cold hand, the cold blade, in movements asifIneverexisted