I Am Axe
I Am Axe
The righteous blade is burnished bright
By the stropping of a river stone,
The axe is honed and keen to fight,
To break, to cut, to crush the bone.
It’s ashen grip is worn and stained,
But steady smooth in seasoned hands
That wrap it tight and augur shame
Of broken nerve in collapsed command.
From heavy haft to polished blade
The arcing swing is terror’s rest,
Whose head seeks gore and bodies laid
In mounding clumps of unburdened flesh.
The poll throws back and men divide
In hopes avoid the mounting attack,
But the horse is out and blade will ride;
The sentence death, and death the axe.
I am the axe, and I am the blade,
My roar of metal bounds from plate
To quaking plate; The force has made
Loose and unsure the pen of fate,
It’s lines blurred, bleeding, running down
The page that marks a man for death,
And recounts his lifelong last renown.
For I am axe, breaker of breath.