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