Crossroads

The stroke of steel,
The sting of slice,
The drift of red,
Cools like ice.

Times of old,
Were filled with this,
Filled with pain,
Banished with a kiss.

I look back now,
Without great ease,
I see what i did,
The thought makes me freeze.

Cut-ridden limbs,
Swayed by my side,
Red tinged skin,
Brought on in tides.

Foolish mistakes,
Fell into place,
Made me feel banished,
Exiled into space.

These feelings return,
But not that of steel,
Not that of sting,
Or flow, stay sealed.

Those feelings of lost,
Dread, hate and space,
Drift inside and out,
Like the steel from that case.

Parted from that hobby,
But not with all distance cry,
Once touched by the flow of blackish red,
Always part wants to retry.

To feel the flow of blood,
Across skin kept clean since then,
Thoughts in tune with that above,
Plague my mind after ten.

Real strength as it seems,
Is not to lift a weight,
But to fight a deadly addiction,
That haunts you like it's fate.