Oh! Sweet razor blade!
I keep you hidden like a Jew
in Nazi Germany.
The only difference is that you
are my salvation,
rather than the other way around.
I’d like to go like Beethoven,
without hearing a sound,
but feeling the vibrations
of thunder all around,
and thinking of the music that I made,
while I contemplate the silence of the grave.
But no, my life will end with a squeek.
Like a mouse in a a trap, the cry of the weak.
For you, I am but but like a mouse,
looking for a piece of straw to call my house.
And all the lives I have touched with my heart,
mean little or nothing.
So my little, steel-coated friend,
you will be with me at the end.
No more rhymes, no more meaning.
It’s all just dust and blood.
Russell Smith, July 2015