Stabbing injuries; the price is high.
Knives mostly cut the attacker too
The victories become like brilliant red glass,
Dangerously sharp and irresistable,
Yet tinted with your own blood.
It's like the photograph that steals the soul,
Claiming the pound of flesh,
For an ounce of satisfaction.
You think it becomes you,
When it actually becomes you,
A bottomless pit of quick sand,
Only you can spit yourself out.
The improvident live here and it eats those foolish enough to visit.
But lessons come with experience,
Better to wait.
Time is the servant of blind justice.