Sword

sword

It is an interesting image:
A clean, new sword handed down from your family lineage,
sparkling metal in a playful scrimmage.

And as you held it delicately in shaking hands,
wondering what those angels and demons will command,
a red-lipped kiss whispered things about that fearful man.

You told him to wait, after the confession;
His expectations, your depression, killing a childhood love session.
A sparkling meadow of butterflies and memories; a sad obsession.

Closing your eyes, you stabbed your own heart that night.
Summer was never as dark, but your “true” man brought you sunshine.
The metal sadness gave you wings for your disappointing flight.

After all, the sword was not meant for a fight.
Your family knew that, and so did your anxious heart.