He sits at the table solving the worlds problems
rolling the silvery blade between his fingers
like an accomplished knife thrower in his own circus.
One false move,
or one true move
could start it all or end it all.
Starry pink snowflakes danced before him.
He spent most of his time there
at the table grandfather saved ten years
of pennies for, to pass down the bloodline.
past the mirror to his soul,
to where the worlds problems are
solved in silence and paranoia.
through to the oaks patina,
what that sheen might look like
from the inside out
when the smell
was that of dirt and mold
and not of nothing and blood.
It all started out so fresh.
The first always so clean and free.
He loathed conceding he was,
Which would be cleaner ?
Which would be more free ?
Shimmering pink snowflakes,
or the hypnotic sparkling edge.
Rolling the silvery blade between his fingers
like the accomplished gambler
in his own Monte Carlo.
for the one true move.
The ball drop into a numbered pit
on the spinning patinaed oak wheel.
the one false move that ends it all.
Starry pink snowflakes dancing before him.