A little boy once told me,
I had the effrontery because I was a poet, 
To write about love,
When it leaves.
As leaves fall from an ailing branch, 
That I was incapable of the savour,
His words cut deep like the sharp edge of a knife.

He was married to the sympathy from the scars,
When razor on skin births a jaunty aura,
And the sharp edge of a knife,
Is also a subtle display of fireworks,
It was as beguiling,
As the cackle from a burning briar.

A little boy once told me,
I had the nerve because I was a musician,
To sing of love,
About heartbreak, because the ailing branch now falls from the trunk,
I didn’t have the tears,
Those I poured were crowd pleasers,
And my hurt was spurious.
The knife cuts deep like words from a crusaded curse.

I was no martyr as he was,
For if truly I was hurt, I wouldn’t cry.
The calming aura that comes,
From not being scared of death.
His words shaved notes into the pages of my core.

I stared at the little boy,
For he spake like he was unhinged,
His reflection gleamed,
Emanating from the blade of the epee,
Held in a firm grip to my wrist,
For the world had taken a toll on him,
And asked of him too much.

In his eyes were raindrops,
Sweat from his minds pores,
As death beckoned to him.

– Smyekh David-West.


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