The sword's lament

-
Throw your hate at me,
your invective, your anger
and I shall wear it as a crown.
For this I deserve, this I have earned.
Throw your malice, your violence,
your madness and your retorts.
And they shall be as my armour,
for they are proof of what I have done.
But give me not your love,
your peace, your understanding.
For I am destruction, forever breaking,
forever melting in the heat of the forge.
I am not he who would hold a flower
and marvel at it's shape, it's smell and colour.
I am he who snaps the branch,
he who holds the sword, covered in ichor.
I am a simple instrument, made for a purpose
and that purpose is not one that belongs.
Not anymore. Not in this world.
So throw me back into the fray,
or let me rust in scabbard to end of day.
But draw me not and give me love.
Draw me to bring wrath. Draw me to take blood.

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