There’s
a sword vertical in the body,
stiff and true, the hilt near
the boot,
tip below the throat, the
chest a keen,
curved blade slicing through,
slicing through;
a
whetted wisdom near the heart, below the head,
too sleek to be held back, when
one can bear
the wielding which does not
allow for respite.
A
keen sword soon to get buried
somewhere
in the plowed brown earth,
the
soft tissue, the unbroken vast sea
of
whatever this is where we are
slicing
through to whatever is beyond.
O
child of God, bring forth the blade
by
calling His name and never holding back.
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