The Sword Poem by Katerina Val

Long blood lines
sour and bitter ends
for a hung's incubus tall pines
and for the agony of a death row the endless day that fades
they are slowing defends
they are saving cold caustic sarcastic breaths
for the last second of their death
but he is holding the sword

Short horizontal rectangular cuts
Cuts turn into scars
Scars turn into violated forgotten blood
and demented decadent vessels resurrect scenes
short vertical lines
deep and open or closed
like butchered mouths
throwing their laugh with malevolence
and malice
but she is holding the sword

Header on the floor
spinning around on the floor
crying and laughing on a toy that he found
on the floor
as he was trying to stand up or pull himself
back together
that's funny
pull himself back together…
the small young boy, big on his pain experience
"I am an expert" he waves his hand
because he is now playing with the sword

Control
as their brains and hands are slow
as they lose this rare sense of control
like gold
control should equal with gold
they say

Consumption
as a bigger mouth is more homiletic than theirs
yet better capable to be tongue-tied
is hovering above their heads
preying their dignity
or whatever they shall call "self defense"
overeating their liver
shiver
they begin to shiver
but they never feel the carnal pain
even if they are torn up and bleed to the minute of the despairing entreaty
their psychic pain is even more minor

Because there is no self
there is no one
but they are holding their swords
they are waving their swords

They rip the air in two
with their swords
in two
trying in idiocy
to distribute the air among them
to share
but an idea is never enough
so they stand there
holding the idea of sharing the scope of the air
the scope of breath
they cut the air in small pieces
with their swords
by chopping it they are contented
and with it, surrendered
as they are laying their swords
before him

before their offhand insatiable God
as least a sane perfect entity

Drenched in pain
or in decayed pride
decadence
in a shame aside
you can feed with decadence
because
he is still having his sword

May his sword be the cause of his calamity
the silent fellow traveler of his misery
misfortune
or they may all say
when the light is too heavy to see
and the air too much to breathe
inhale the thick fog
and watch them
they can all pull out their swords
and rip the air in two.