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

Song for an unknown serial killer.