Saturday, November 21, 2009

The Perfect Weapon

It looks sharp and exact,
A snow-white dagger
The perfect weapon.
Press your finger to the edge
You’ll expect a rivulet of blood
To ruin the stark perfection
But it bends under the pressure,
Caresses your skin like a dream.
Satin slivers held together tightly
By an unseen thread of whispers.
You can feel the murmurs course
Under your skin, leaving a little piece
Of the unimaginable places it’s been.
It hums of the oceans, and sings of the tides
It pulls you through deserts of white-silver sand
Scorches you with the fire of the sun
And soothes you with the brush of twilight.
If it softly kisses your sleeping eyelids
Then you’ve felt a piece of heaven
An angel’s feather fallen from the skies

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