the razor is blonde with blue eyes
the tears are black
and the edge is white fire
in the glare of the streetlight

to love the razor
it must be an extension of the hand
a bone of steel
pared to essence

the blade is quick
the edge is fear
the razor traces a red line
the drunken weave of our victim
dances for us beneath the pale moon

this is what we worship
this is what we fear
this is the way we live

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