Dented, tarnished, and torn
Ripped, rusted, and worn
Links litter the ground
Another loss, yet another lifetime revealed
The truth is once again found
No protection does it offer
No value, no worth, nothing about it will fill my coffer
Howling I pull, I twist, and grumble
Gritting my teeth I reach and reach to feel
Back to the earth I tumble
Resigned I sigh and shiver encased in its steel
Chipped, dull, and stained
Its edges can no longer cause alarm
No longer honed and uneven in weight
I find it to be just an extension of my arm
A pommel once boldly displayed and proud
Now only serves to hang my filthy shroud
Its grip is worn and tattered
Sitting coldly in its scabbard
Caked with blood
Soaked with sweat and tears
It has seen its better days
Displaying my mistakes through the years
Begging a glance for every passerby
Revealing my foolish whims and ways
Ruefully mended and stained
Glancing upward to the sky
Painfully asking asking why I even try
It has always been me, myself, and I
Leaping, falling, without a care
Not once did I think upon this obvious dare
Crawling back to my knees again
Silently I scream Please no more, I give, I yield
I will rise to feet, take, the reigns in hand, and leave the field
Clinching my fists I wipe some dirt from my muddy brow
Realizing my folly, at that moment, it has come to me now
I never had a chance, not ever, no way, no how.
About the Creator
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THIS IS YOURS
It was just past sunset and usual hovering of blue lights droned across the dust filled sky. Leaving eerie shadows as the passed over the ground. Hannah and her little brother sat inside the remains of a car. Running all day with little food and water had tuckered them both out. Still slightly panting, she reached into her old backup to retrieve two canteens. Passing one to her brother she warned him sternly “Do not suck it all down. It is all we have left.” Sweat ran down both of their faces only to be absorbed by their tattered clothing.
By Paul Cannon3 years ago in Futurism
The Longest Language Journey Back
When you have a godawful experience for years (perhaps French lessons) and need to write about it as part of the healing process and already you feel parts of your cognitive machinery trying to “clean it up” (guess it’s French lessons) for public viewing by default since it’s likely to make some toes curl up (sorry, but definitively French lessons.)
By The Dani Writer5 days ago in Confessions
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