“Sprout”

my shoulder blades were bruised
with everything that happened
since you showed me the flowers.

“The Blade”

The blade reaches up
above the rooftops
to dawdle beneath
the clouds and smog
of a vast cityscape.

It hangs above my life
every life by a thread
of thinly woven white
little lies and half-truths
that mill us all to sleep.

Every now and then
I see the people stop
and glance at the blade
with renewed wonder
then start to carry on.

The same people stop
walking to question why
they wander weary streets
beneath the blood-bound
blade; then they forget.