Sonnet - of Knives

They say that success is a sharpened blade, And I whet mine each day so carefully. In the steel my reflection ever ablaze My eyes glint with blunt functionality. Slicing precisely—a delicate process of practiced strokes sliding back and forth each gesticulation into the pith causes the blood to gush under the traumatic blunt force and to splatter upon—ever so faint the bleached cutting board, collecting the bloodstains and the inscriptions of countless knife strokes. Relics of the grind—the daily rituals— —Wherein I often lose myself, and become like this blade more and more dull with each passing day.