I am not the mystic sword
imbued with powers
and stored in a
gray scarred stone,
not wielded well
but a time worn,
battled weary blade.

There was no fate
for which I was born.
Instead, I was
weighed down
by a heavy heart
pumping out
uneven beats
of poetry
to the point of
collapsing.

The future was
not something certain
but patterns
easily perceived
recognizing what
I’ve seen,
I kept trying to
tell you the truth
and it broke me in two.

Like the oracle,
I saw through
to what life had in store
if people refused
to really use
the brains they
were given,
but no one
would listen.

So, with a tattered scabbard
my edges were dulled.
I lost my sharpness.
My bladecont.
reflected all the world’s darkness.
Until I could no longer see,
past the fog that caused this
tragic madness.