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Image for the poem ancient struggle

ancient struggle

The handle,
I am squeezing it.
Smooth and hot,
The leather feels alive.

White and silver glimmers
Surround me,
Coming from everywhere,
It’s like infinity it self
Was transformed in slashes.

It is like an atrocious dance
Dedicated to the Gods of Old.
My moves are no longer conscious,
Just waves of empty fury
That want to chase away my despair  
And the fine, sharp pains.

…blood tastes like metal.  
Markis
Written by Markis
Published
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