Journey of a Sword
For generations I slept.
My violent ever churning home I could accept.
Then the churning itself ceased.
I wept.
The home went dark.
The home went cold.
Then the clanging began.
Louder the noise grew.
A foreign brightness leaked into my view.
And I knew.
It was an invasion.
They came with picks and shovels.
They took us from our protective embraces.
Tortured I was in heat and fire.
My form resembled nothing familiar to me.
What I once was, I was no more.
Still I would not be released.
I heard the drums.
Drums from a distant source,
As I was carried elsewhere,
Allowed was I, for now,
To travel with my old friends,
also tortured and mutilated.
Their forms exactly like mine.
Suddenly our travels ceased.
The drums became louder.
The talking of foreign mouths suffocated my ears.
I was taken away from my comrades.
I would likely never see them again.
The drums continued.
Only now I was not so callously thrown aside.
Cared for was I, by my new master.
I felt my wits sharpened.
My skin shined.
The drums stopped.
I do not know for how long.
Still, in the possession of my new master;
I was sharp.
Bright,
And somehow,
I felt proud despite my torment.
Then the drums started again.
My master charged with anger.
His hatred became mine.
With my help he slew his own kind.
No longer did my skin shine.
It was covered in a sickly crimson hue.
With every blow I landed I felt my sharpness fade.
Then suddenly my master released me.
I tumbled to the dirt.
The drums were distant.
The screams were fading.
I faded out of mind.
Dirt overtook me.
I found myself in a new shelter.
Dark as the first home, before the invasion,
Peaceful,
Forgotten,
My old master was beside me,
for awhile.
But even he too succumbed to the time that barely aged me.
I was taken from my old home.
Forced to fight another man’s war,
Only to be left alone once more.
Copyright © Michael Walker | Year Posted 2013
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