The Writers' Circle

Mixing feelings in a bowl;
breadcrumbs, broken bread with fat
rubbed in.  I'm thinking salt in open skin,
sliced - a serious cook's knife's handiwork;
cutting edge with its
signature-style silver-steeled shine,
serrated sharpness slicing
flesh - reminds me of splitting scarlet grapes
fresh from the vine - so much liquid running
away
from me.
 
And I hear the familiar rushing sound of blood.
There was too much pressure.
So I had to fix the valve.
 
Swiftly splicing slick skin;
wet with sweat - red sweat
and tranparent blood
binding on my surface;
so logical, so symbolic, this wise meeting
between my weakness and my power.
Compromises would be nice;
pity my reasoning amounts to nothing more
than making choices based on weather
or  throwing, with my poor, biased hand,
the same old numbers on the dice.