And the World Hastened itself towards Death

[CreamcheeseSandwich]

And the World Hastened itself towards Death

A tiny wooden sword
Clutched between my index and middle finger
Balances on grey nails and paper cuts and 
Words that blister on weathered skin
That send scores of history through white
fingerprints embedded in coloured blood
That drinks from the pauper's cup, that tastes of freedom and salvation, that 
rules the lands after the bones lay decaying, fragmenting into clouds of dust and
broken nebulas, scattering wisdom and fear that lies dormant underneath the front 
door, a gentle beast that needs no collar around its neck except for the legislations
printed by ruthless hands shaped like the roots of a willow tree,
swaying over fate with its head bowed in fake, graceful submission, like a praying mantis 
placing its head in prostration on a blade of grass
The shadows highlight the silver dewdrops decorating the wings of a 
moth caught in a spider web, light blue, bulging eyes, reflecting the sky, a tattered morsel
of the universe replaying a movie on a filmy TV screen 
The wooden sword pierces paper and tongues, slices the periods off the end of sentences, 
and makes the tablecloth bleed red doilies 
that blossom into roses, a sweet fragrance of longing and nostalgia for the benevolent status
of petals carpeting the golden courtyard by milk-white feet, like a dove caught in mid flight, 
the moon in the bottom of his palm tattooed with the ink from crushed bones and green leaves 
that decorate golden hair, derive sustenance, their sun, give birth to feeble sprouts 
that cannot lift their heads.
Saturn tilted on its axis and offered its ring as it proposed to the sun, and the wooden sword 
split the galaxy down the middle, left it lying like a potato bug on its back, its feet peddling in the air,
its antennae twitching with incoherence, searching for a sound that does not reach the ears, 
and a foothold no longer there, like a dying moth taking flight.

[CRNDLSM]

I like the swooping building of the words, but I'm stuck on the format, a little too paragraphy, fpr instance a line ends with 'wings of a' but there's not enough clever enjambment throughout i think to justify it, why line breaks at all? I would give more, but I'm stuck

[CreamcheeseSandwich]

I like the swooping building of the words, but I'm stuck on the format, a little too paragraphy, fpr instance a line ends with 'wings of a' but there's not enough clever enjambment throughout i think to justify it, why line breaks at all?  I would give more, but I'm stuck

Thank you for your feedback, I tried putting "wings of a" on the same line and also the line about red doilies so that the verses do not sound too broken. 

And the World Hastened itself towards Death

A tiny wooden sword
Clutched between my index and middle finger
Balances on grey nails and paper cuts and 
Words that blister on weathered skin
That send scores of history through white
fingerprints embedded in coloured blood
That drinks from the pauper's cup, that tastes of freedom and salvation, that 
rules the lands after the bones lay decaying, fragmenting into clouds of dust and
broken nebulas, scattering wisdom and fear that lies dormant underneath the front 
door, a gentle beast that needs no collar around its neck except for the legislations
printed by ruthless hands shaped like the roots of a willow tree,
swaying over fate with its head bowed in fake, graceful submission, like a praying mantis 
placing its head in prostration on a blade of grass
The shadows highlight the silver dewdrops decorating the wings of a moth caught in a spider web, light blue, bulging eyes, reflecting the sky, a tattered morsel
of the universe replaying a movie on a filmy TV screen 
The wooden sword pierces paper and tongues, slices the periods off the end of sentences, 
and makes the tablecloth bleed red doilies, that blossom into roses, a sweet fragrance of longing and nostalgia for the benevolent status
of petals carpeting the golden courtyard by milk-white feet, like a dove caught in mid flight, 
the moon in the bottom of his palm tattooed with the ink from crushed bones and green leaves 
that decorate golden hair, derive sustenance, their sun, give birth to feeble sprouts 
that cannot lift their heads.
Saturn tilted on its axis and offered its ring as it proposed to the sun, and the wooden sword 
split the galaxy down the middle, left it lying like a potato bug on its back, its feet peddling in the air,
its antennae twitching with incoherence, searching for a sound that does not reach the ears, 
and a foothold no longer there, like a dying moth taking flight.

[depressedmetalhead]

Welcome to the Pig Pen, creamcheesesandwich! I'm not a pro at writing (or reading) poetry, but I believe this poem has a lot of potential. I loved the imagery/personification and the story every detail told. I would, however, make a few suggestions.

The poem generally has a list-y feel to it and this can be daunting to readers, especially when the poem is as lengthy as this. The repetition of "that" throughout the poem definitely contributes to this feeling as well. Breaking this up into more clear stanzas with more lines and removing as many commas as possible would probably help. When I first started writing poetry, someone told me that sometimes removing unnecessary sentences/lines makes a poem more potent, and I think it would help a lot with this poem as well.

Keep writing, and I look forward to seeing your future works, fellow newbie!

[The_system_screams]

I concur with depressedmetalhead in all words and actions to be made. I, too, love to abruptly stop a sentence just to continue it again in the next but I soon found out if it does not serve a purpose and if it does not serve a purpose it does not serve the poem. Sometimes the rhythm is there to hypnotize in longer poems and I think this is trying to do so but that requires much more delicate and controlled use of all words.
It has potential but needs to be cut and thrown out like we poets do with our favorites, unfortunately.