Further Up, Further In
I tried to walk through the gleam
of the butcher’s knife,
past the cold necessity of murder.
My feet crunching through
the broken dishes
through a hundred years
of winter, past the lamp post,
to stand between the pieces
of the broken table,
release frosted breath
I didn’t know I held, and demand
death walk backwards.
I tried to walk through the gleam
of the butcher’s knife,
past the cold necessity of murder.
My feet crunching through
the broken dishes
through a hundred years
of winter, past the lamp post,
to stand between the pieces
of the broken table,
release frosted breath
I didn’t know I held, and demand
death walk backwards.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson