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Description
Rolling around, inside, inside,
Refining the milky silk,
Molding, making, the sand grain pressing,
Members of different ilk.

Words, actions, grains in the ears,
Grinds into tears of he who hears,
Dripping, rolling, the silver is folding,
Hammered and harden in fears.

The blades all ready,
Shaped by time,
All made fine,
By the craftsman's mind.

He seems a sane man,
But has the strength to stand,
Throw up his blades,
And watch where they land.

But he keeps them away,
And waits for his day,
Refining in his mind,
All that they say.

And then it comes, looming,
Like the moon over night,
The day and the ways,
That he must fight.

The clam has opened,
No pearls in sight,
Just all blades gleaming,
In the glorious light.

Lurching around,
Air filled with blades,
And the way they dispense,
In a manner insane.

From every corner, every shadow,
Shooting to its prey,
Every man around the clam,
Must stand and take his pay.

It hurts to be a clam,
The swords forming inside,
Pain gone for a moment,
When the mouth is open wide.