The Creator Chronicle: Ancient code of arms

Wars and famine have stolen 20151207_170256 (4)
Normality, serenity an object
Of past lives contrived by old
Philosophers and the deranged,

An age where compassion was
Necessity, there was only blades,
As defenses, the greatest weapon
Of them all kept strictly under lock

And key until eventually the blood
Shed and violence overpowered
Battle lines, under lowly whisper
A call was made, and plans were

Shed of niceties, furrowed brows
And deep set frowns, the elderly
Emerged in robes painted gold,
A wooden box between them,

A coffin for the enemy, slowly
They approach their saviour and
Offer slow words of grace, grasp
Hand by hand dripping with blessings

And prepare for the end of days,
This weapon concealed in layers
Of silk, bundled like an infant child,
Treated with respect of sages while

Animosity of the wild battered chips
From the corners, as they traipsed
Down lesser aisles, all the steps of
Greater good, echoing down this

Deadly path, cool to touch, a deathly
Wrath, wound so tight in anticipation
Passed from the generations, finally
It finds the palms, the gentle caress

At last, who proclaims this weapon
To the crowd, children, wives and
Men, the greatest gift sent through
The vortex, a single black ink pen.

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