What callow and dead words have you written?
Your sword is but a nub; a shadow of the weight it once held.
Deftly attuned to the foray of maladjusted thoughts
That seeks an ending but can stop at nothing
At one time, feelings were sharp and new and uncontaminated
Yet further on it is shaved down
An inner core as black as the raven’s eye
And when the nub has lost its reason to yield
Will it be retained for posterity?
Like the memories of the freshly dead
Your written words will decay into oblivion
Until a new soul is shaved sharp
Forever willing and ready and equivocal