The Sword, once clasped, demands its dues. No place
Is safe from inner-searching eyes that cry
Human truths implacably denied. Case
In point; two legs, two hands to reach and dry

Two weeping eyes of cognizance with trust,
One mouth to shout or soothe erroneous
Hurts… The Sword, when grasped by intellect, cuts
Both ways in all respects. So perilous,

We bury them instead of carrying
Their keenness high. The blood of self which
Coats its blade is soul-weight wearying,
Is stained by haft the brave must heft… Unyoke

The chains of slavery, too many are left
Behind, when we lay down our arms, bereft.

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 8/30/05