Broken Bokken, tattered and torn.
Disastrous swings, forever thine warn.
Taped to the tip in electric red.
Concealing memories, now dead.
Thy only offering, would be but a tight grip.
Awakened, balancing across a tight strip.
Ritual carved in symmetry.
Relic from the past, wooded in mystery.
And, a husk of the real, to a warrior’s sore.
Preparing for war.
The war should never come.
Order out of chaos, to a callused thumb.
Forgive me not, for I know not of the weakened clay.
Wistful intentions were not to dismay.
Thy rages will cease.
Earned acceptance of peace.
Thy token, dear Broken Bokken.
About the Creator
Sam Vela
High Chief Creative Writer and Editer of the Magic Man fiction writers club of Texas. Self appointed and self initiated!
++ to never forget a desire for music, but to forget a career in accounting++
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