Relief

A sudden dagger stab and a twist: I wince
As a new wound is gouged.
I pluck out the offending instrument,
Press hard on the bloody rag that used to be my shirt.

My attacker - a dear friend - is crippled with grief,
Seeming more wounded than I.

The blade in my hand gleams with crimson light
And I think how just it would be
To use it in revenge...

...Yet, no.

I raise the knife and the rag to the heavens
Where they are caught up and vanish in the clouds.

Oh Lord, please help my friend be happy again.