9 Jul 2007

My dagger is a word that cuts through punctuation. With it, I have carved my name in the atmosphere, and scratched a hymn into the dust of the ground. Like a character in a far flung fiction, blazing with a passionate drive, I once proved myself worthy of what I am; or was that just an illusion? My dagger is cold in its sharpness, which could penetrate the walls of oblivion, slice in two any manner of concept. The fires that forged it cannot be lit again, and there will be no blade as that which extends to a point from within my hand, that extends into the unknown in the most piercing hello. One day I will lose it, and they who discover it will not be able to understand that it was a magical familiar of mine, but I imagine they will see it in ways I do not. It matters not, for it is in my memory; it has a home forever as a heft in my hand just so, even if I never see it again, and I swipe the air with an empty fist.

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:45 am

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