by Richard Mcallister
I am a scalpel, the pain I cause is delayed like the monday morning trains.
You beg me to hold you in the grasp of mortality and yet before you realise it, you are bled.
I am the shard of glass you don’t see, walking happily to the beach of your dreams, I am there to ruin your day.
You love me but I will bleed you dry, to leave you an empty husk on the battlefield of love.
I am a scalpel, when I slice, your emotions run forth like the aorta’s rushing red river.