Blood Upon Your Knife

by ianblackpoet

Like a honey bee – 
The sting that irritates me 
Is fatal to you. 
You say the moon is static, still it spins, 
You proffer tales of war in times of peace – 
You label me the phantom of the feast 
When all your demons dwell within. 
And what have I to fear of slander, I 
Whose fortunes rest upon my will alone – 
Do you believe my pride so fragile, prone 
To shattering? You claw at stone. 
Disparage me, deride my works, and curse 
The day my light beset your dreary life – 
But know you this of blood upon your knife: 
That you, not I, shall suffer worst.