I strain to hear because his voice is soft:
“They’re on their way,” he whispers, “best stay sharp.”
I grip my sword, prepared to make it sing.
As we wait, I hear a blackbird sing.
Is that the crunch of leaves ‘neath footsteps soft?
I hoist the blade I honed till it was sharp.
The pain I feel is sudden, deep and sharp.
I try to warn my comrades, but can’t sing –
My gasp alerts no one, it’s much too soft.
Never did soft flesh meet my sharp blade and now my sword will never get to sing.
A tritina for this month’s yeah write poetry slam.