Thursday, April 27, 2017

Edge, a poem


I've been laid on the forge of life
and hammered into something you
could never understand. No knife
has such an edge, so sharp, so true.

Take care, should you hold me too near,
that such a blade finds not your heart;
I would not shed a single tear
when all that holds me here might part

upon that razor. To divide
is not to conquer but make way
between these things I might decide,
to draw thin lines upon the day.

Some other hand must drive the wedge;
these cuts mark only what might be,
as we seek balance on this edge.
If neither of us is set free

what anvil and what hammer ring?
’Tis but the forge where I have lain,
’tis but a tune the gods might sing
as all the fires that formed me wane.

Stephen Brooke ©2017

Could I be any more obscure?

No comments: