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THE OLD SWORD

Here a Claw was laid to rest
Shimmering in a velvet vest
Touch the oak that sheaths it still
A muzzle on the perfect kill

Sullen Silence loathes its bed
Thirsts for arm and leg and head
How it weathered through the years
How it clings to shine and shear...

Lift it from the ancient case
Fearful, draw it near my face—
The image it throws back at me
Is thickly laced with sharp blade’s plea

Tender tails of flesh and bone
Have not the strength to call my own
The Claw that hovers half released
Freed from the sureness of its sheath

So its coffin calls it back
And I stand humbled by my lack
Of will to hold an angry Claw;
I gently close the binding maw.
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