Covered Body

Hand reaching,

Grasping,

Swiping

At the thick, billowy tendrils

Of the inky blackness

Hand foreign,

Unwelcome,

Trespassing

In the bedroom where

It is not supposed to lay 

Shaking with the same intensity as one with a great sense of stage fright

The Hand Bearer lowered Its grasp down to the waist, now was the time to set things right.

Finding their victim’s deliverance, wrapping the unsure hand round

Smooth handle, delicately searching for the proper balance, soon found.

The blade attached to the end, typically used in this house for preparation

Instead was adjusted, pointed, and angled for penetration.

Eyes focus,

Settle,

Clear

The fog of darkness

Lifts and retreats

Eyes lock,

Dead-set,

Tunnel-vision

On the resting body

In the expected place

Bloodshot pupils dilating, the Eye Bearer begins to breathe steadily

For the first moment since entering to fulfill their self-selected destiny.

They would regret, They would understand, They lay so peacefully

Drying out, the Eye Bearer flickers Its lids, refocusing easily.

Tunnels form, illuminated only by the goddess of the night, the resting form grew closer, larger

Suddenly creeping forward, a mesmerizing bloody target formed before the searcher.

“O God, for the first, it is mine own hand that will seal my fate,

Stay up in your prideful palace as I strike down your belov’d!

O Mother, where are you to speak down on me? Watch and hate,

Observe with your God and utter silent clamors at me, your unlov’d!”

Heart beats,

Skips,

Beats.

Anticipation rising

Beats forget their place

Heart pumps,

Swells,

Expands,

Sweet adrenaline 

Flows and courses

The trapper has laid its masterwork and the unknowing prey

Stumbled in, fate sealed, they rest while the work is underway.

The Heart Bearer barely contains their great groans as they feel compelled

Some great force surges forth, It knew Its own greatest art awaited them as this feeling swelled.

Picasso did not have the great scarlet palette that lay before,

Canvas untouched, the gushing color that will come from this great store.

Instrument rises,

Arcs,

Peaks

The great silver

Length catches light

Instrument bright,

Transcending,

Flashing

Now a guiding beacon

Leading the way home

Rocketing down, like guillotines of old, the instrument drops

With the same steadiness with which a scythe shears through crops.

The great blade grows close, time-spanning, distorting

Try as He might, Time had no power, despairing.

Letting out a great sigh, the Instrument Bearer exalted

An executioner’s plunge completed, the honed blade sank in unthwarted.

“O.. God…

O Mother..”