Falling Knife Poem by Robert Smith

Getting a grip on my life is a chore
it slips through my fingers it falls to the floor

All that I hold that is dearest to me
abandons my grasp for the floor and to flee

It cuts through the floor and falls down to the street
toward unlucky pedestrians it's likely to meet

Ever so faster it falls with the sound
of the wind and the air as it speeds to the ground

Slicing it's way the earth's rocky crust
through aeons of layers of stone, ash and dust

To blistering magma's pyretic abuse
where gold silver and diamonds lie wait to seduce

It burns through the earth to the hot iron core
as it screams to the gods not to fall anymore

Every dawn of the morning each day of my life
with the sharpness of steel on the edge of a knife

The dream flees the kitchen yet sleep somehow lingers
from depths of my mind through the tips of my fingers

A great saving catch! Well the effort was grand
and most happily futile thus saving my hand

Falling away past the tea in my cup
when it rests on the floor I can then pick it up