The end nears: the sharp sword dulls.
Its slices seem less useful,
the elegant, diamond edged glance
of its dark dance less fancy.
Though its blue blade is well-scarred,
these wounds seem slight from afar;
there are just two that make it
useless, unfit for gambit.
Toward the tip, the first flaw:
result of a reckless draw;
the hilt, where some blood was spilt
has lost gilt and needs rebuilt.
But such a sword it once was,
for noble knights in the cause
of laws and learning, sacred stuff
that bade us bluff, in the rough
where blades meant business was done
by the strong and those who run
them, son. How soon we forget,
and quickly let a prize pet,
who we think so meek and mild,
assume control and loose wild
a chaos child that just kills
and cannot still its ire’s will.
We must end this mad worship:
the steel, the spoils and kingship;
to strip the sword of its might.
We start tonight, while there’s light.
13 DEC 2012
