A blade made of steel,

working to attain an ideal.

They could be used for good.

A tool made against falsehood.

But mayhap it could cause fear.

It would bring woodness near.

Perchance it could slay its maker,

wielded by a vicious lawbreaker.

But prithee do not be pitchkettled.

A blade isn't a mean to be unsettled.

It could be used by a righteous earl,

allowing him to protect a small girl.

If in the hands of a powerful knight,

it would be a force against all blight.

Yet if it's in the hands of absolute evil,

it could bring to this world upheaval.

In the face of a horrific, heartless horde,

could stand a fearless lord. He stood up, brand in hand. There were no others, the fort unmanned.

Yet it would only take one well aimed saber to force his people into merciless manual labor.

To each man,

his blade

connects

to his

lifespan.