I am on fire, burning from the inside out.
I feel like a brand new sword, confused
As to why it’s been beaten and burned for so long.
I have neither soft nor dull edges
And no sheath to quench my thirst for battle and blood.
I am the talisman of victory. I am the artifact of defeat.
I have no lord for whom I pledge my allegiance;
No great cause to lend my might.
I was forged by a mighty hand against an unforgiving anvil’s edge
And now I gleam in the darkness and the light.
Will they sing songs of my glory or lament the destruction and chaos I cause?
Will I find my way into a hero’s hand or satisfy a villain’s iron grasp?
Will my blade become a liberator of the innocent
Or an oppressor of the helpless and weak?
O Creator, and master of your craft, why have you made me thus…
So cold and sharp, so beautiful and dangerous.
Frederick S. Blackmon, USA
The Social Poet 