Another Poem
The Sword
Anger has a bitter taste.
Metallic, it lingers long.
It stays with us
even into the cold, crisp,
endless darkness,
upon which we choose to cling.
Sometimes anger becomes determination.
Determination that can fuel the fire of revenge.
Or it can be used to bring to light justice.
Sometimes it is used to recover beauty
out of the ashes of a tortured soul.
Beauty to be cherished by those enslaved.
The fire within is consuming,
as all fires true to their nature are.
What is wrought from this pyre
is the choice of the smith.
It can be forged into tool of salvation
or yet another instrument of destruction.
A sculpture of infinite grace,
or a device of immeasurable horror.
In the eternal hearth of some immortal souls,
the fire never dies.
Burning for many generations,
it holds within its grasp
Metal of the imperishable.
To be hammered and honed by the chosen,
To someday be wielded by the pure,
as the light Divinely given
to guide the New Order.
Anger has a bitter taste.
Metallic, it lingers long.
It stays with us
even into the cold, crisp,
endless darkness,
upon which we choose to cling.
Sometimes anger becomes determination.
Determination that can fuel the fire of revenge.
Or it can be used to bring to light justice.
Sometimes it is used to recover beauty
out of the ashes of a tortured soul.
Beauty to be cherished by those enslaved.
The fire within is consuming,
as all fires true to their nature are.
What is wrought from this pyre
is the choice of the smith.
It can be forged into tool of salvation
or yet another instrument of destruction.
A sculpture of infinite grace,
or a device of immeasurable horror.
In the eternal hearth of some immortal souls,
the fire never dies.
Burning for many generations,
it holds within its grasp
Metal of the imperishable.
To be hammered and honed by the chosen,
To someday be wielded by the pure,
as the light Divinely given
to guide the New Order.