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The Collector
As far as the edges grooves
Up down all over it moves
it scars, little tears in skin
blood rips all over again
In grace, it varies a lot
When tempered in a flame pot
It melts and shapes its values
With a sharp edge it argues
What pain means little to knives
they may cut deep whittling lives
but no, no weakness in strength
Such choice is power in length
It's spaces voids with feathers
It breaks through chains and fetters
But such choice is done so wrong
When pain and sorrow is long
I Read This One 3 Times
...they may cut deep whittling lives... a spectacular line that transcends every other emotion in this poem - sorry you mourn. May joy return when you need it. Amazing composition ~~Lady A~~