a lament for the blade

how do we know when the edge goes? when does the cut become a bludgeon? the blood may flow, but only beneath the skin. a bruise, a dull bump, a crushing blow. a lament for the blade. how will the point remain? so far we’ve come, but is it? dragging right, a slip to the side as we drop on down, hoping for ascendancy. just hoping. all dressed up to go nowhere
shallow depths of hollowness fill the cluttered void as we reach out between the desire for rest and the scatterings from haunting past failures. failures that lure as the whore struts her stuff. whether repulsed or otherwise we look, we dwell, voyeurism the mall of the conscious numbed into unconscious. we struggle to break free. a gradual flow of shifting sand. a shudder, a jolt. the dirge begins, hackneyed rhetoric comforting only the grotesquely comforted while the front rank dies. innocence lost
what is the footprint of this generation? fully grown but immature. children of children. babes of the unborn sitting in the marketplaces and calling out to all, themselves, others. ‘we played the flute yet you did, you did not dance; we sang, sang the dirge of hope and you did, did not mourn.’ one comes in abstinence, but the verdict is diabolical. the seed of man comes in celebration, the words of the witnesses shout out, ‘unacceptable! … a glutton and a drunkard, a cadre and friend of the untouchables!’ … but wisdom is judged right by her fruits