Fling yourself at his feet and leave your fate in his sole grey eye
His tree was of the world
but his secrets were his alone    
He wasn't an All Father
His wine was spiced with blood    
Men know the price of madness
but what of boys
Left to shape their bodies in the forge
For some, there had been no hammer
Except the one they held      
No water to cool their molten steel
Except for the well they found
But the fire was fed all day long      
Liquid metal writing on the surface spilling into one shape and out of another
Over and over
No weapon can forge itself
But **** it
I'll try

This was never meant to hurt you.
It was a simple miscommunication,
a stumble of words.
"Words" can be so easily misspelled to say "swords,"
and swords can impale.
I suppose words can, too.

Swords that clash and clang with might,
Blood is spilled but still they fight,
For honor, glory, money, land,
Or little child with helpless hand?

They fight to save those who are weak,
Those who think themselves too meek,
They fight for those who fell before,
And of course those they adore.

Defenders of what they think right,
Neither wrong, just filled with fright.
The Other's thoughts are strange and new,
And change is something they won't do.

Neither wants to fight this war.
No-one likes the blood and gore.
But they will fight till Other falls,
To keep them from each other's walls.

A difference is a war-like shout,
That causes fights and fearsome doubt.
But difference is a coloured sky,
and beauty to the naked eye.

Difference- while the start of war,
Is splendor, charm, and so much more.
It is grandeur to behold,
And worth much more than precious gold.

if the probability decreases,
but the possibility remains

if peace is in the words of the ruling,
but not in the hearts of the people

if you bury your sword,
but do not forget where it lies

Harder and faster,
my heart pulls two ways,
harder and faster,
as nights turn to days,
shorter and steeper,
the dragons I've slayed,
rear their heads back to taunt me,
their sisters do haunt me,
as I stand in this mess I have made

A pen mightier then a sword

Ink more powerful than an edge

Yet what war was waged without a blade?

Then again what war was won without quill?

The pen brings the peace

The sword brings the war

Who is to say finishing something is harder than starting?

Maybe it is not one mightier than another

Yet it is that one is the other

Nations are changed by words and actions

One alone falls short