Tell Me No More of Enchanted Days

Where do knives go when they die? Do they sink in the ground, Without a sharp sound? Or do they watch with devil wings, While you sit around and cry? Do they burn to lava, molten, but cold, Steel words purified by silence, A sad, sorry shame released into air? Do they sit around and wait for their funeral, A rigid coffin forever holding their fiery breath? The one who cut even the hardest of fruit, Now sits around sulking because noone Really knew, they didn't mean to be so cruel. Where do knives go when they die?

I heard the waves, gentle, persuasive, The sea smelt old, like a memory, The sand was moist, like the clouds above, Digging my feet in, I looked across, Horizons and days shifted and soared, Nights and stars dreamt and gazed. Peaceful, this dance of eternal lives. I heard the shadow approach, 'May I sit with you?' No, I said, this is my time alone, This is my life, not yours. 'I promise I won't disturb you' It sat down, heels crouched in, Eyes wandering out. We didn't need to talk. Our thoughts were connected, Our eyes saw the same visions. I knew it wanted to make amends, I knew it was ready to accept, Willing to believe what Only the two of us had known. We held hands, We braved the chilly winds alone. Then it grew dark and the shadow disappeared, Leaving me smiling, Leaving me feeling whole.