An Apology

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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?

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