Poems of the Past – The Stiletto

Below is a poem that I wrote a long time ago, back in 2013. It is in a number of parts and was for an assignment for my teaching degree. We had to submit something personal and creative, and I’m honestly still surprised that I got away with writing something like this. From memory, I got a decent mark as well!

I found it recently when cleaning out my older documents, and in the absence of a new poem to share with you all, thought I’d throw it up here. It’s not perfect, and I think I’ve gotten better since then, but sometimes it’s nice (or horrible) to look back on the beasts we once knew.

Enjoy!

 

The Stiletto

I

Light’s illusions,
Shadows in a crowded room.
Is there more to it than meets the eye?
Are they ever still?
Only when darkness falls
Do they come together –
Silhouettes caught in a loving
Embrace.
Nowhere and everywhere;
All consuming.

A trick of the eye:
We see nothing
But them, but
Nothing is all
We see.

Illusions, lights; a
Crowded room of shadows.
Somewhere between perception and
Imagination
They are condemned to stay.

 

II

Assassin: sleek, surreptitious,
Sneaking soundlessly. Surity
Exudes her soulful steps
As she smoothly
Slides her sharp silver stiletto.
Sternum,
Soul,
Silence.

 

III

Dark,
Dangerous – heaving chest and
Sweating palms. He looks
Dead but for the movement of his eyes.
Silent steps destroy his
Waking dreams as a hot,
Sharp
Pain
Takes his world away.

IV

Hold it close,
The thought of better times.
They will come, when all that is left
Comes to close.

 

V

Dystopian

dreams

break

into

consciousness,

holding all

Thoughts hostage.

A breath – too much;
A whimper,
Head held high

as

freedom

slips

away.

It is unthinkable, the notion of a mind unchained;
At a time like this
It is held far                                                                              beyond reach.

All we can hope for is
Respite
From the emptiness.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nothing,
Not a sound.

 

VI

the-stiletto-vi

 

VII

In. Out.
Sigh.
Breath, death, passion.
All the same when the darkness comes.

 

VIII

Nothing, not a sound.
The darkness that falls holds us hostage,
An untainted thought cannot be found.

Like a new killer, waiting for their first to be crowned
(The scalp a necessity of any assassins salvage),
Nothing, not a sound.

A consequence: the first kill will always resound.
A permanent image;
An untainted thought cannot be found.

No racing thoughts, no doubts abound –
Slowly sneaking down the passage,
Nothing, not a sound.

When she reaches his room, she looks around:
No one but the victim, unaware of the coming carnage,
An untainted thought cannot be found.

Finally, as she draws the knife her heart again starts to pound.
A quick plunge, a twist to dodge the rib-cage:
Nothing, not a sound.
An untainted thought cannot be found.

 

IX

In the morning we can pretend
It was all a dream.

 

X

“Treat every kill like it’s your first”,
That’s what she was always told,
“It’s the only way to quench an unquenchable thirst.”

But as she held the stiletto above her head once more, she imagines the roles in reverse,
She paused too long, forgot the saying of old:
“Treat every kill like it’s your first.”

An iron grip on her wrist, this is not as she rehearsed.

Not everything goes to plan.

As the darkness overcomes her she
Begins to understand,
You cannot quench the unquenchable thirst.

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