The first one is drawn with your breath, that first gasp before wailing your way into the world. The second one you meet early, sharp or hot or dark or strange, wielded against you always by the waiting world. The third one comes from comfort, the safety of house and home, the stability that allows for your dreams. The forth one is the one that fails you, the blade that breaks when you need it most. The last one you wield from the inside out, the weight that you carry in the place where you wear your name, the one that is only lost when you are dead. Even when your hands are empty, even when your eyes are closed. These swords are never sheathed.
It isn't that the world is at war. It isn't that day is lost. The streets wander and turn, rivers of tarmac covering every breath. We spread cement and we weave the wires and we seed our cities with words without roots or veins. We are always knots and ropes. We are always either caught or released. The world is always turning, changing faces and shedding skin. The fight is always there, inside and out. Every moment is the one that is last.
It feels as if I just stopped falling. My limbs and spine feel like bricks have been battering my bones. The haunted halls and empty rooms whisper and growl, the sickness loosed and brutal. Sleep howls and the wind blows through me. Traffic crawls along the streets, and the sky just slipped away. The day is gone and the night is distant. Eyes wide open, hands leaden and empty, a coldness crawls through me. I keep counting as the numbers run down. I keep counting in blackened blades and birds on the line.
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