Blade-Song

by pyro

  • Poetry
  • Dramatic

Published September 8, 2011

Sing to me,
My sweet, sweet blade,
And tell me of
Calm Death's fair trade.

Paint me a picture,
A splatter of red,
Take me away
From what they've said.

Cutting words,
Slicing deep--
The pain you've sown,
I now must reap.

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In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.
— JRR Tolkien