Frosted blades scratch seamless sky,

angry to find no scars.

Serrated edge draws no blood,

nor sawing motion, vein;

Wind is no ally

when renewed rigour

results in naught.

Pain pitched at a hushed heaven

grows boomerang eyes;

the spy’s sabotage

skilfully dissects

along lines traced by rote.

Silvered cycle,

shameful circle,

drawn by frosted blades…