It was…too dull
but slipping easily, fitting –
almost perfectly – into
the sharpener, it ground to
a fine point, with which
I stabbed out at the blankness
and, staining the innocence,
bled a sacrifice.
the matyrs hung, slanted,
nailed there with such care,
indignant in their grayness
arrogant with their pride –
shouted silent witness
to the strength of
what was not said.
Enjoyed this poem? Don’t forget to share it on Twitter!