Nowhere for a knife?

The knife under the bed
It rests
it doesn´t shift from it´s position
It really stays sharp

It will be applied one day
Into some aggressive cranium
The knife it comforts me hiding there
as night greets

dusk retreats
thieves conspire
birds desist their tweets
The ugly shine
 the slither of it represented
introduced
down it can come
through the boasting mind
I hold it humbly
Under the bed it bides
waiting like an angry child
grey and half rusted

toward flesh it winks
toward hands it breathes
Bloody floors and never agains
will be expressed caprichiously