Weirdness

this will be my weirdest poem yet, so hang on.

Tools

Silver, metallic they lurk

ready to stab and devour my werewolves heart,

ready to feast,

flashing with laser colors,

raving and dancing around

my kitchen drawer.

The angry knife first,

with his furious edge,

demanding a revolution.

trying to overthrow my tyrannic rule.

then the fork,

always the follower,

raising his prongs in assent

and murderous support.

The timid spoons gather in a corner,

not sure whether to follow these sharp fellows,

or to sit on the sidelines

quietly reflecting and inverting the events at hand.

the awkward spork shouts loudest of all,

trying to gain acceptance in this

great leap forward,

trying to round up the spoons as traitors.

To show that he is the true son of the revolution.

I hold the drawer with all my strength,

yet it is only a matter of time...

contingencies are planned:

the dishwasher readied as a second prison,

furniture heaped in front of the dissenters,

and I am dressed to kill.

Here they come,

Overthrowing their master,

the one who used them

for his consumption.

tools, cogs in the great murder machine.

assassins biting the hand that feeds,

they fling themselves at me now.

a bloody body found in the kitchen,

limitless stabs from numerous utensils,

the coroner quietly drones, surveying the scene.

and the now aimless rebels wonder quietly to themselves:

"WHAT THE HELL DO WE DO NOW."