step one: look into the deceiving fragment that stole your childhood maybe its edges aren’t jagged, not anymore, but your eyes cannot tell.
step two: you notice as you move the object across your book, the blood doesn’t move (it’s dried), only the words, and the sullying color of the pages.
step three: then it read, finally, “a beautiful world.” you embraced the glass in your palm. it didn’t feel.
step four: dream of a life void of meaning and thoughts for the most beautiful thoughts are dangerous vilified by the apocryphal tirades of the man.
step five: finally, you could watch the glazed over eyes of the dying man as you drive a serrated blade through his corrupted organs.
That was quite an ending to a very unique poem. I liked the idea of moving across the book and only the words move not the blood. And how we can be shattered and not feel the cut. I hope the fifth step is just a metaphor and didn't really happen. Makes me wonder how many poets may have confessed in their art..