Hand reaching,
Grasping,
Swiping
At the thick, billowy tendrils
Of the inky blackness
Hand foreign,
Unwelcome,
Trespassing
In the bedroom where
It is not supposed to lay
Shaking with the same intensity as one with a great sense of stage fright
The Hand Bearer lowered Its grasp down to the waist, now was the time to set things right.
Finding their victim’s deliverance, wrapping the unsure hand round
Smooth handle, delicately searching for the proper balance, soon found.
The blade attached to the end, typically used in this house for preparation
Instead was adjusted, pointed, and angled for penetration.
Eyes focus,
Settle,
Clear
The fog of darkness
Lifts and retreats
Eyes lock,
Dead-set,
Tunnel-vision
On the resting body
In the expected place
Bloodshot pupils dilating, the Eye Bearer begins to breathe steadily
For the first moment since entering to fulfill their self-selected destiny.
They would regret, They would understand, They lay so peacefully
Drying out, the Eye Bearer flickers Its lids, refocusing easily.
Tunnels form, illuminated only by the goddess of the night, the resting form grew closer, larger
Suddenly creeping forward, a mesmerizing bloody target formed before the searcher.
“O God, for the first, it is mine own hand that will seal my fate,
Stay up in your prideful palace as I strike down your belov’d!
O Mother, where are you to speak down on me? Watch and hate,
Observe with your God and utter silent clamors at me, your unlov’d!”
Heart beats,
Skips,
Beats.
Anticipation rising
Beats forget their place
Heart pumps,
Swells,
Expands,
Sweet adrenaline
Flows and courses
The trapper has laid its masterwork and the unknowing prey
Stumbled in, fate sealed, they rest while the work is underway.
The Heart Bearer barely contains their great groans as they feel compelled
Some great force surges forth, It knew Its own greatest art awaited them as this feeling swelled.
Picasso did not have the great scarlet palette that lay before,
Canvas untouched, the gushing color that will come from this great store.
Instrument rises,
Arcs,
Peaks
The great silver
Length catches light
Instrument bright,
Transcending,
Flashing
Now a guiding beacon
Leading the way home
Rocketing down, like guillotines of old, the instrument drops
With the same steadiness with which a scythe shears through crops.
The great blade grows close, time-spanning, distorting
Try as He might, Time had no power, despairing.
Letting out a great sigh, the Instrument Bearer exalted
An executioner’s plunge completed, the honed blade sank in unthwarted.
“O.. God…
O Mother..”