The Edge

From a box of things I packed away,

beneath the faded cloth,

I found this tool of yesterday,

its chrome a ghostly moth.

The handle worn, the weight is right,

a familiar, cool design.

I see the blade, a sliver bright,

a cruel and perfect line.

It waited there, a sleeping threat,

for skin it used to know.

A polished gleam I can't forget,

where hurried minutes go.

This glint of steel, a memory keen,

of moments sharp and past.

A polished, dangerous machine,

designed to always last.