the edge of the blade
traces tight upon skin
gently slicing patterns
carving ever deeper into
musculature down to
ivory bone to before the
wounds have time to well
with thick gouts of
pulsing blackened blood
which he catches carefully
in bottles and jars
into which he will dip
the feathered quill deeply
only to spill another ode
across unblemished vellum
an unattractive brooding
brute that catches beauty
in the candlelight dancing
on the mirrored blade
knowing in his dessicated
heart he is only ever
alluring when he bleeds
and even then only fleetingly
cutting deeper and more often
buried under the scars of
his own inevitable failing
seeking solace in the storm
as lightning cauterizes
the wounds marring his soul