Blades

Casting a set of syllables
I set out to mould words
and temper them with thoughts
slowly honing a blade of meaning.
With my eyes closed and ruled
purely by the instinct, I throw 
the blade into a an unknown void.

It hit something, for I was sure I 
heard a noise or rather a voice?
I cast again, mould again. temper
again and throw again.
Noise or voice?
Yet again i cast, mould, temper
and throw.
Noise or voice?
I cast, mould, temper in a frenzy
and throw and throw and throw
until, finally, a voice.
The voice.

I move closer, closer, closer still;
now close enough that I can smell it-
that voice.
It was singing a lament for the deaths
of her identities. She keened.
Her lacerations bled unchecked,
Acid of her past oozed, eating away
every syllable, every word until
all that was left was just her,
sans any meaning.

Back into the void she melted,
her arms wide, open,
with willing vulnerability,
awaiting newer meanings;
and new blades across the dark.