Always with this sword it is change that brings the night
out of the day and puts the word against the curve
with a kind of wind that is hot within the breath
with a quick flash of rose across the cheek of interest
that starts at the end and moves to smooth hope
again to die, at last to breathe it in and keep
the passionate victories at bay with quelling
and an ointment made of metal shavings and blood
stuffed in whatever break in the dam that should appear
because the nature of alive is drawing in
and the war is always me and what I own against
what I have only wanted as the truth of who you are
that this sword deep in the fist and singing
has a word etched beneath the crimson shine
and the night will bring its velvet cloak to dawn
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