tagErotic PoetryMind You Go Through Stone

Mind You Go Through Stone

byThe Huntsman©

The human consciousness penetrates stone.
A perfect blade at birth, upon arrival.
Tempered and satin-furnished,
Springing blue and lighter than wind.
An edge unmarred, untried of cut, innocent.
For good or ill, pure intent,
Divided down the gleaming rib.
To slaught the meat or serve it sweet –
The choice not yet presented.
The soul not met with Self upon the earth.
Too desperate and subject to the will of world.
Satan, Satan, I knew we spied you, there.
Slithered into Eden, not an evil heathen Spirit,
But a human, Satan, always human, fear them.
Wether green and belly-wormed, or blind –
Slithered out the shadow and grew a second nature.
Each one, has taught one, the way of the Garden.

Like unto a perfect blade, with single nick now weakened.
Now a trend, a tending toward,
the wound of wounds, the unaware.
Gravitating iron core put to savage use.
And this is all the use we know,
The only use that folds our spring.
Whole nights of blood, weeks of regret,
doomed to forget –
Our human power, our natural healing – to forget.
Satan, Satan, lucky us, to think it all away.
As we think, so all shall be, if we think upon perfection.

The blade carried, wrapped in fur, far into the northland.
Borne unto the Frost King’s berth, the winter kingdom bleak.
And higher still, a shoulder clad in white.
There to trip and die, or striking stone unbone a treasure,
Fail before the Sun, or shed the wings and fly.
We, a blade, brought to beat - the earth, the wolf, our fellow sheep.
Earth subjects all. Now sheathed again,
Still the wound, and there forget.
Sleep a time, think blade repaired.
Satan, in that cure, despair.
Now called again to war:
this year our might, right with wiseness.
We groan through blood and shaken rust.
With only one hand free, impossible.
Hale we should have been.
Had we filed that nick at birth.
Had we filed and oiled the blade,
each fucking time we hewed.
Each stroke a sad or glad resolve,
each act a new confession.
Had we stopped to bury the dead,
A thousand scaled throats would not dull us.

Lay beside the fire, and think upon perfection.
Shake the rust, though much you lose, a thinner blade upon reflection.
Clean your edge before you sheathe. Think upon perfection.
When you break at last, under hammer hand.
The break is clean, silver fire the snap.
The battle over swift and the blade made again.
Soundless, soundless, soundless.

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byThe Huntsman© 0 comments/ 2137 views/ 0 favorites

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