At the fringe of the forest,
Lies a knife, bloodless,
After a storm of tears.
It is a sin and a dream,
Love, hatred, and nothing,
Buried beneath a garden,
Of beloved weeds.
Thorns caress its hilt,
Like a lover’s cheek,
Forbidden, yet dear,
Sharp, yet sweet,
Dulling its pain,
Into loneliness of the soul.
Creatures gaze upon it,
In awe and in fear,
Of its hideous beauty,
Impossible in its existence,
Yet real in its touch.
On the clean blade, lies
A nightmare and a dream,
That could not leave,
Nor belong to the world,
Forgotten by its maker,
For its grave mistake,
It could not kill,
And it could not die.