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



true thee

the doc fails to fathom

and moves the cold hand, the cold blade, in movements asifIneverexisted

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