Blades

I feel it first in the taut skin betwixt my shoulder blades.
Next, cutting into the tissue, the fats, the bones.
Pulling me this way. Pulling me that.
Warring worlds, destined to conflict, destined to strife.
Held by my weak corpse and by blades,
cutting each other from the inside.
A body beaten that cannot sustain such force.
Two sides relentlessly pulling. Gnashing. Warring.
To succomb to either is to lose:
to lose a part of myself,
to lose a whole era, a world locked in time.
So rather than give in, I punish the flesh.
The pull becomes too much, and the will takes over:
willing a reconciliation between the sides that know nothing of whom they fight for.
A body suspended between two entities, once a part of both:
Now, apart from both.
The last bodily instinct is to hold on;
the last move is one of incoherent grabbing.
For something that means nothing.
That, however, is just the flesh's dying wish.
I, however, realize the struggle is done.
A fleshly war is raging, but peace sneaks in on my spirit as the blades
Cut.
And as I finally
let go.