Born of Rock

Posted: March 14, 2011 in Poetry

He dipped a scalpel slowly into a vivid velvet vivisection,
the ground around the iron blade cracking,
offering up only dust, no blood, a tectonic incision.
From the wound he hid, knowing he was lacking
in the nerve to keep steady,
to keep his traitorous knife ready.

Covering up his deeds with laugh and smile,
he made small talk and enjoyed his time there;
knowing well all the while
that his victim was still bleeding, still offering a stare.
And his pulse it would quicken
and the silence would thicken.

Not too long after his own transgression
he abandoned all pursuits and locked himself away,
a childish example of true regression,
and away from all eyes he would plan to stay.
Never taking quick moves,
marinating in booze.

I chose very quickly to demonize his actions,
though my own could be viewed as just the same.
I was the traitor with fewer distractions,
a bearer of rationalized shame.
Bear with me in hypocrisy
and let me rest in idiocy.


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