There Hangs The Sword

There hangs the sword, the one handed down from father, to son, to me, the symbol of my family, the defender of our home, the weapon that has slain hundreds, that fought for our homeland in the long war, and struck fear into our enemies, the blade that was retired but never allowed to dull, that was laid to rest but never sheathed, that was put on display as a reminder to all future interlopers this house will forever be vigilant, there is the sword even now, still hanging there, as I slowly bleed out on the floor below it.

Death's Splendid Gifts

Death and beauty were bound by love.

Its strength bore them two children in turn.

A prophet, intuitive and quick.

A defender, strong and kind.

Content together, all offered their talents so the world could partake of their bliss.

Beauty blessed creation, allowing all to enjoy its earthly splendor.

The prophet gave insight to decipher and atone for man's errors.

The defender offered courage and strength to the masses.

Death bestowed his touch to all, releasing them from life's toil.

Under their hand, humanity found constants, forever extant as long as man lived.

All inevitable, all wondrous and all binding.

From Guest Contributor Michelle Vongkaysone