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Sculpture/Thread

I found this old poem I wrote when I was going through some papers of mine the other day. I have no idea where the subject matter came from, to be honest, but I liked it enough to save it from the obscurity of a printout on paper and put it here on my blog.

I hang -
   Suspended by a slender thread,
   Of dreams not dreamt and tears unshed

   Whilst brightly searing lines of pain
   Cross through the flesh where blade has lain,
   To flay nerves bare and muscle raw,
   To sculpt the beauty that he saw,
   Beneath the tawdry flesh and blood,
   Like David born of sticks and mud.

I hang -
   Suspended by blood-rusted chains,
   While spirit ebbs and darkness stains -
   My vison of his smiling face,
   As razor dips to taste the place,
   Where once his lips had graced my cheek
   His body naked, bloody, sleek,
   He whispers softly through the pain,
   Sharp words of love; a knife's refrain.

I hang -
    Suspended in the growing dark,
    He sculpts my body red and stark;
    He lets the razor careless drop,
    I barely sense the cutting stop -
    Yet feel it when his lips meet mine,
    My blood between our tongues like wine.

   With shuddering breath my body numbs,
   The thread now snaps and darkness comes,
   His lips and tongue and teeth bestow,
   The final touch I'll ever know.

   He is my thread, my chain, my death -
   I love him with my dying breath.
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