Widower

My hand is at her hilt,
oh how cold the steel is against my hand.
oh how warm she desires to feel.
through warm rippling flesh tears solid, frigid steel.
her desire of warmth not yet through;
a widow she will make of you.

My arm tenses forth to draw her blade,
oh her weight is a leaden leaf.
Oh how sharp she has become to be,
honing, sanding, hardening, from me.
Her flashing blade is a fearful sight,
ending thus the warriors fight.

Sheathing with a smooth, gentle smile.
Oh how the snap of the sheath rings out.
Oh how full she is now,
ending life and finding warmth of their blood, that's how.
The bell is rung, her time is done,
"only you can wield me, you're the only one."