It breaks like strained timber,
splits like iron under frost,
leaves its mark quietly
where no one thinks to look.

A moment becomes a wound.
A choice becomes a bandage.
The world keeps moving,
asking no pardon for the trade.

One man keeps his footing.
Another learns the shape of darkness
behind a strip of cloth.

They call this virtue
because it sounds cleaner than cost.

But I have learned:
mercy is a hand thrust forward
while the blade is still falling.