Whetstone

Spit and rub,

hone the cleaver,

sharpen

surgeon’s scalpel, your knife,

circulate moisture

border to rim,

glanced instruments

worthy to slice

 through leather-bound carcass,

the toughest of flesh,

diseased

or virgin pure,

unanaesthetised,

we cope, we grimace,

we lather,

so we endure.

Compacted grit,

bedevilled,

measured,

quarrier’s immortal bone

stropped metallica,

purposed, wet,  

abraded life

against dry whetstone.

Rotate the edge, buckle not 

when dryness 

halts, grinds progress

in task,

double-sided finish

separates blunt

from acuity’s  strength,

perspicacity sharpened, unmasked.

 

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