The name of this poem is "The Blade: Dull, Wise, Sharp, and Forever Heard" it has a PG-13 rating. The poem is also not dedicated to anyone, and criticism is allowed.
21:39, February 15, 2015 (UTC)
No-one is allowed to copy from this, you may use the ideas that you may receive from reading this. If you wish to use part of this poem in a story or for anything else on the wiki, politely ask me before you copy the poem.
The stone, icy and arid
He brings it to the table, all the while a fable plays in his mind
He remembers a girl, a girl from long ago
His blade in hand, shining armor dawned,
He charges forwards, to save the girl,
He slips, falls, his heel tender, his body is ill in ability
He stands up, how can he carry on?
His comrade tells him to carry on.
And the stone in his hand becomes the instrument, the pawn.
He slowly turns it over and over, and inspects it for scratches.
Yet he has no intention for the stone in need of patching.
He drags the blade over the stone, even amidst its plea for relief.
There in the distance is the hill, the flag to capture.
Oh how he tries, his armor’s shrill screams holding him back.
All the while his mind screams for him to attack.
There She comes, the night mature.
She hides him in her cold embrace.
Slowly he sinks, deeper and deeper.
Till yet so suddenly, none can see his face.
His face to fades, his intent for virtuous fight fleas faster and faster.
There at home, a young widow cries.
The Night Mother does not forget.
Here the blade comes to pass to the hands of another, another tries.
The Night Mother does not regret.
The stone, now whet and tasked, lay drying, the blade is well.
The man who carry it now, remember all those who fell.
He remembers all those, His Night Mother won’t let him forget.
He holds the blade: She holds him under her spell.
How can he understand enough to regret?
The Night Mother calls to the fallen of the field.
The Fallen gather up,
Gather up the Fallen swords they wield.
Where they used to lay,
The Night Mother called the Standing to praybe vigilant.
There, the Fallen stay.
And who, who of all, could call, call the Night Mother A Tyrant?
Yet, there She lay, in her mausoleum.
Where there is Her Freedom?
What of her fallen? Sprawled and laying in the fields.
There still lay, all the tools they tried to wield.
The Fallen, how they cry out.
How ever will the Standing find Out?
Now the man with whet stone in hand,
The sword of the Fallen on his shoulder,
The cry of the unheard echoes throughout the land.
Even the Fallen, the Fallen buried under the great eastern boulder.
How can the Standing know what the blade’s legend was?
The Night Mother, She has not left a witness among the Standing
Yet, He Has: the blade amid the Standing.