Transience

I am ill with desire, wrought with anxiety,
Shaking with excitement, abound with despair.

I am but an animated shell
bursting with fleeting emotions
but I really am empty
inside.

My blade is blunt but it cuts just as deep
It no longer penetrates the skin,
It just inflicts pain from within.

My blade has an eye but it is blind to mercy
It cuts with indifference,
of its cold-blooded preferences.

My blade is rusty and no longer elegant
It was caked in blood,
and nobody washed it the way it should.

My blade is but an artifact
It hungers for blood,
but could no longer kill.