The blade remembers what the hand forgets
Each motion calm, deliberate, slow
No mercy stirs where silent darkness sets
No light remains where secret rivers flow.

A breath,a pulse, then neither - only red,
A whisper caught between the heart and ground.
The room, now still, becomes a house of dread,
Where guilt and ghosts in heavy air abound.

Yet beauty clings to death's unholy art,
A fragile truth in violences disguise-
That love and ruin share a single heart,
And mercy sometimes lives in dying eyes.

So mark the deed not pure, nor wholly cursed-
For every killer was a dreamer first.

Vienna  (Richard?)

This stirred a memory.

Was it you who many years ago, on the old place, wrote a piece about a man looking at the ruins of Brighton pier, and remembered a knife slipping in easily through a leather jacket.

I'm inclined to agree with the sentiment that dreams die first.

Gyppo

Hello Gyppo, yes I believe I did. The old place,  what a wonderful, creative place that was.....nothing like it since. Cheers Richard