On Blade's End

On Blade's End

A silver pyramid,

Mirror to a situation,

Cure to one's consternation,

I shan't ever see anything

So softly again,

For I shall be cured on the blade's end.

Age spots abound,

Lord only knows what it has cut.

Could be deer, could be you.

In the end, though,

It will finish by cutting me.

A red wine-like river flows down my wrist,

The skin, burning,

Though there must be some pain.

Water nearby, 

I rush by,

Submerge my arm, and let the river flow.

The next wrist goes,

And the sink becomes spotted.

This white bathroom actually looks like a piece

In The Met. Very avant garde.

I smear some around

As I fall to the ground.

The lights are dimming,

And night begins to fall.