My old dull knife; I love that blade. Behold her blunted self portrayed: She shines, yet cannot make her point Unsheathed, she’ll only disappoint.
Her edge, that dares to draw no blood When cold, shall carve no willing wood; Well-warmed, she’ll lose the fight to butter . . . Despite her glitter, she’s no cutter.
A useless tool. There is none worse. I’ll sharpen her—and then, my verse.
PROMPT #12: write a poem about a dull thing that you own, and why and how you love it.