Disclaimer: The poem’s mine, no one else’s. And if anybody wants to contradict me on this, go ahead. Oh, and don’t even think about stealing it.

Author’s Note: By “destroyed” (you’ll see what I mean at the end of the poem), I meant that the sword was destroyed in battle despite the fact that the battle had been won.

A burst of warm golden light shines in through the window

reflecting upon my silver blade

Uncovering it from the gloom

of the dark

and shade

I’m picked up by a preteen boy

my owner, in fact

and taken immediately to the blacksmith’s nearby

to be shined, sharpened and ready for battle

A duel emerges between my owner and another page

As the blades clang together, on the inside I feel

terrible, agonizing

unbearable pain.

On the outside, I feel nothing.

The night creeps up upon us

I’m placed in the scabbard

And now that the duel’s been clashed and won

the pain is by now the most excruciating that I’ve ever had

and cannot live with;

After I’ve been destroyed and stored in

broken little pieces

in a tin box

in the cellar

where I rightfully belong.