on making it this far

A circular saw is your tool, rip cuts your specialty.   Along the grain but deeper than is reparable. 

Time and time again, ravaging beyond recognition.  Steel and permanence.  A reflex, not an instinct.

Fingerprint of the hand that made you, five senses deep, sixth sense wide.

On a good day though, from the side, I see a water wheel, not a blade.  Power quietly generated.

Rippling between your fingers, remembering the webs you no longer have.  Resistance, however slight, is pleasurable.  It highlights what has been surrendered.