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.
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