These three daggers that lay before me
Their handles aimed towards my head
Tell each a different story of their belonging
The first is one that has been well maintained
At it’s slender touch, it could spill my blood
The steel is fresh and it has been cared for greatly
The second is blunt at it’s edge
And holds less of a threat than the first
It’s silver swipe has faded over time
And is now a ***** grey
The last is the worst of the three
Only the handle lays before me
A relic of former knowings
The blade has left, perhaps for someone
Whose care will exceed the previous owner