On Crafting Fleshy Weapons

This leaden sky cries
Frigid tears, scarcely warmer
Than the misery
Filled void where once a soul
Languished in base
Neglect, indifferently
Ignored by most
Yet callously nurtured
By few men of ill intent.

And upon whom should
We heap the ample onus?
Upon crafted blade?
Upon the crucible in
Whose heart it was made?
The hands that stoked the flame?
Or bowman who loosed the shaft?

As for me, I long to be
Absent from this legacy.
Neither forge nor fire,
Neither bellows nor coal,
Neither hammer nor anvil,
Neither arrow nor bow.

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