The Severance

“Their bread will be cut. Their wine will part.”
He said, harshly pampered by perspirations pinnacle, bent at his knees,
Tightly tied by forceful ropes roaring past the connective humming
Of his skin, unlocking the cells of his blood, unhinging their gates.
“Are you afraid good sir?” He whispered, shaken by the hesitant
Steel pressed against his neck, restless in its static pause.
“What keeps you from taking my life?”

Silent apparitions graced the room, every guarding shadow bribed,
Staring from distorted angles, watching, the two mortals,
Both wronged by an evil greater than their own—smirking—
Knowing both blinded by carnal constraint, kept back by hardened
Hands of clay, from truth’s throne and loves very form sitting on it.
One touched by vengeance, and the other, by fear.

“Tell me murderer!” he spewed. “How and why did you take
The lives of my wife and daughter to be your own?”
The hands of he, holding the axe, tightened.
“I doubt your rage permits you to listen.” Said the murderer,
“But I will speak. Even though your ears are avoid of my words.”
Forth, every apparition leaned, with lips shut their ghostly ears twitched,
And all grew dim, the air choked with grey vines and weeds of
Heated breath, of a common origin—the heaving souls of both men.

“Boredom consumed. My hands itched, till satisfaction
Came to be lost in the domains of my fingertips, needing
Blood to be found. Driving me to slaughter your beloved family.”

“Lies! Murderer lies! The linen of my sweet wife and daughter,
Are free of crimson stain, much like these floors and walls!
Speak of truth, or find your tongue ripped and throat severed!”

“Exhaustion consumed. Slumber snapped the spine of my awareness,
And I sleep-walked to your home, equipped with a most lethal,
Worthy, dagger. Then awoke in a puddle of blood,
Which through innocence I now know belonged to your wife and daughter.”

“Lies! Murderer lies! There is no blood!”

“Curiosity consumed.” He chortled, wavering beneath the rising axe,
Deafened by its sharp ringing through the air.
“A dark poet robbed of his voice was I” His speech quickened,
“My voice I needed. How else was I to utter my poetry, and
Twist the minds of all who listened, without my voice,
Without the innocence of your two beauties in me released.
Oh yes! oh yes! Their bread will be cut. Their wine will part; for—“
The axe fell upon his throat, driven deep, cutting both his speech
And flesh, but, permitted him to utter a whimper:

“They dine within my throat.”