The Swordsman A poem

He held the blade

to the light, it glinted

the edge ground

honed

not razor sharp

it would slip through flesh like a hawk’s wing

through the air in its dive for

sustenance.

He turned the sword and it

reflected himself.

Had it been that long

had he been such an utter and irrevocable failure

sadly

yes.

Now the blade is red-rusted

pitted

with the tears of those who will not

shall not, see.

He raised it to the sky then asks

what will it take, thee, oh, sword

to be finely honed once again

to shimmer with truth

to reflect the heart’s longing

for what is real

within each of us.

Or is it entirely too

late.

 

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