The Silver Sword

The Silver Sword
by Craig Olsen

I have a silver sword at home,
A sabre, made to be like ones of old,
Like the ones used when the states were at war,
The kind a Union general would hold,

It rests within a silver sheath,
Always clean and shining bright,
Just sitting in a corner of my room,
Every day and every night.

While home alone, I felt the urge,
To break it from its mundane routine,
To grab it by its golden hilt,
And let its blade be seen.

The sound of metal against metal,
Rang like a morning bell,
And since it left its barrier,
It had me in its spell.

A strange power went though my hands,
And passed into my heart,
My hands began to tighten their grip,
So the sword would never part.

The sound that the silver sword made,
While cutting through the air,
Sent a chill straight up my spine,
And went out through my hair.

There was not a soul around me,
No one was there to see,
How a weapon, glistening and sharp,
Could bring me so much glee.

But, alas, somebody returned home,
I sadly put the sword away,
And now it sits back in its corner,
Every night and every day.

And even to this moment,
It can only sit and wait,
For another day when someone comes,
To free it from its frozen state.