I hold it. Gently. <br />In the palms <br />of both hands. <br />Like a captured, <br />thoughtful dove, <br />it is as delicate <br />and remote, <br />as a secret. <br /> <br />But then I seek: <br />not a greater <br />understanding, <br />not a higher truth, <br />but temporal fame. <br />Some sordid proof <br />of immortality; <br />a twist of reality. <br /> <br />My grip grows tight, <br />I squeeze: it fights. <br />The feathered down <br />explodes. <br />Red and white <br />and bloody, <br />the shatterred, <br />oblivious body, <br />falls, <br />and cracks <br />the ground. <br /> <br />I plucked <br />a fantail from the air. <br />I heard the Songbird's <br />music suite. <br />I quilled a message <br />from it's blood. <br />It was a poem. <br />Complete.<br /><br />David SmithWhite<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ax-of-creation/
