Upon Bloodied Feet


I live on the edge of a sword.

Pride's pressure and primordial trepidity

Pull the puppet's strings

As he dances while dead inside

With feet made bloody by this senseless balance.

With each rest, a silent prayer that I rise not again;

Each breath I beg to be the last.

The sword will never leave my side, and neither will the word,

For I beckoned the priests of death,

And so they armed me.

Knowing I have the capacity

To relieve myself of this piss-stained life

When things go "too wrong for too long,"

I perform my macabre ballet upon these bloodied feet,

Smiling ever so slightly, betraying not the dread knowledge I hold.

  • Author: AnxiousMane (Offline Offline)
  • Published: May 3rd, 2022 09:02
  • Comment from author about the poem: how i live? how i live
  • Category: Sad
  • Views: 25
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