A Collection of Blades
Part I
Now is when I look at my rage. I've polished it, see how it shines. Another blade for my collection.
Grief is there too, dull and blunt. I have not picked it up since I put it down.
Hope is my most lonely weapon. Gleaming and bold, my constant companion.
Should I hold out my bold hope, my polished rage and ask you, which one?
What would you say?
Such an ugly blade, the shining silver ones sneer at my rage.
Such an amusing novelty, they laugh at my hope.
You would ask, this I know, which one lifted me up? Made me stand? Made me walk? I know you wish for hope, but it is rage.
In a thousand atrocities, I exist. Here with my polished rage, that dull grief and my lonely hope.
Part II
Never is the time I pick up the grief, that dull, blunt grief.
They call my favorite one ugly, my polished rage. The blade I have always sat with. To me, the grief is the ugliest blade.
It has never been I, who sits with that grief. It is only another's hands that hold it, they sit next to me, in the dark.
By that hand is that blunt edge sharpened, By that hand is that dull blade shined.
Anyone such as I can tell you, it is that blade which hurts that most, it's dulled edge, it's tarnished steel, a shameful blade for one such as I.
He does not ask why, as I sit with my rage, and he with my grief.
Such liberties I allow, so that my bold hope, is no longer lonely. His shines with a beauty, I've never seen, and will never hold.
But as I hold my bold blade, and he, his shining star, I see that the same hand, forged both you and I.
