The Verse of the Sword

Limits are set by strength
and resistance, muscle and
blood that paint on soft
harsh canvas of life.

Back and forth the brush
sways, like the easel
amid the falling shells,
Soured by unholy words.

The painting is done when
it is done, when the sword
falls from weary hand,
Leaking blood to the sand.

Now showings in the great halls
for a work such as this –
Just replicas on the stones
in a field of graves.

the verse of the sword

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