Apprentice

This a poem I wrote some years ago. Sorry it is another creepy little poem.

the more his wheel turns the wilder it goes

slow motion sparks are spinning the sandstone

letters in books are pressed to his fingers

he searches for meaning the lines bleed out

his bones get sharper with turns of the stone

his skin gets in the way of his work

walking on corners and dragging his wheel

he’s calling at windows for knives to grind

he gets no fat nickels, no shiny dimes

only what each spinning line will bleed out

the red is thick over lines on the page

the red shines over lines that he wrote

the more his wheel turns the slower it goes

grinding his skin with unpracticed motions

walking in alleys and dragging his wheel

swirling the red and the sweat and the stone

stuffing the blood back into his fingers

and smiling and looking for knives to grind