The Thing Itself

Wed, 04/04/2018 - 20:37 -- Saroda

Smooth wooden handle

6 inches, nearly 10 when flicked open

to reveal stainless steel

The blade marred only by a few oily fingerprints

and a speck of brown

 

It smells of dust

and of dried blood

Thte maple handle melts into the carving

of a bear

 

Eyes wild,

jaw stretched wide with gleaming fangs

I can see the spit flying,

hear her growling, roaring,

urging her handler to rip, stab, slice, slash

 

She is the stern of the ship,

the hilt the hull,

the blade the bow

Only a steady hand can grip this silken tool

and guide the needle point

 

I feel its weight upon my palm

I feel it hum with stolen life

Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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