SWORD

 I was taken from the Earth.

A stone smelted to reveal its worth. 

Beaten by hammers, plunged in fire.

Shaped for warrior’s desire.

An edge I was given, sharp and keen.

Polished, balanced, and pristine.

A companion was made of wood and leather.

To keep me sharp, out of the weather.

I reflected like a mirror.

The deeds of those who held me near.

Given first to a king of old.

In battle brave and bold.

His foes trembled at his feet.

Before my edge their neck would meet.

A spear struck him in the breast.

My blade shone the faces of those who put him to rest.

I was not burned with him on the pyre.

But given to his son, me did he so admire.

I have been given I have been taken.

Looted from fields of death, forsaken.

Pirates, soldiers, knights, and kings.

Held me high and felt my stings.

On my blade reflected campfires, palaces, mountains, and seas.

Faces of triumph, of fear;  men brought to their knees.

I have fed on blood and steel.

Edges chipped from the sanguine meal.

They sealed me away inside a tomb.

In dark and damp by rust consumed.

My stories lost with the lives I took.

Nevermore will hating eyes upon me look.

Sinking away into the soil.

Perhaps I shall be made again by toil.