To My Dear Knife

To my dear and self-evident blade beside which stands my ever-present unwillingness to give credit to your steadfast utility, I praise thee, sir. Your sheen, dulled by the years of cantankerous disregard, delights when upon focus glares and snares. My dear knife, I give thanks unto you for reminding me of the inrinsic qualities and personality that allws you to remain constant. It is true that in the sight of greater edges your seemingly insignificance remains unappreciated by those who would otherwise pass you by as inadequate. To those peers, knife, at them I scoff. I give them a hearty guffaw. I sneer at the very idea that a well-timed division bears little warrant for regard equally with that of one with length and depth from any other. Little makes clear evidence of this as your willingness to impart your wisodom, your purpose upon my finger. You have reminded me once again that, on occasion, a piece of ourselves must be sacrificed in order to obtain our goals. Knife, I applaud you. As the snake is always a snake, rarely garnering or begging for recognition of his intrinsic quality, so, too, are you vicious and helpful providing thin barrier between nature and nuture. It is truly my own burden to bear the weight of a restless and forgetful mind.

So, unto thee, knife, while mine eyes look over the thin slits in my hands, thank you. As I paint the thin pieces of linen pressed against the wound, drawing my fugitive mind away from the earth, you bring me back to the surface. It is your dilligence to your craft and you dedication to resultant purpose that is as surely abiding as the scars that shall litter the battleground of my flesh for years to come. As my tired and aged frame rocks upon its rickety throne before the firelight, I shall glance at each memory and rejoice in that I, too, was there, and together we stood the tests of will and endurance. My dear knife, my blade, my steely confidant, you are a certainly equally a blessing as you are a damnation. Upon glistening demon's wings you glide bearing a strange humility that can only be regarded as lordly. Your candor is a testament to your sacrament. Why, even your shape is a testament to the brimstone that litters your shank, for does it not beckon, does it not prompt, does it not suggest, even, that it is born of Satan's cephalic nodules?

May your memory, if not your body, persist, my dear sr.

Bastard.

Sincerely,

Invino Veritas
11/30/11
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