Reading the words
Of blunted joys
And having to wonder who
Hones the edges of happiness
Sharpens the blade
Makes them Marlowe over the bar tab
Who is the stingray to their Steve Irwin
Running them through and poisoning the wound
Wearing armor to turn that blade aside
Even the strongest hand behind it
Does not drive the point in
Or make more than a scratch that but
Itches a little
While others writhe as
Something spreads through them
With each throb of their hearts
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