Thunderous Knives


Thunderous, your voice rained the halls like
Jelled explosives and your octagon pain
I could feel as sharp as a stencil.
My ears followed your crackled moans
Like hounds baked by the sun in fields
Strong as an ivory sword.

Your eyes were snapped gray, and your skin
Was melted into a pale mold that distorted
The senses like insufflated powders.
An ant-pile of blood-caked clothes lie
over the kitchen knives.