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Edge of Reflection
by Thomas Miller
In the dim-lit room where shadows dance, A glint of silver holds its stance, A knife, sharp-edged, so cold, so bright, In the stillness of the quiet night.
Forged in fire, born in strife, A tool, a weapon, a symbol of life, It lies in wait, in a silent trance, Its purpose hidden, its gleam a chance.
To carve, to cut, to split, to rend, A trusted ally, a foe to end, In the hands of fate, its destiny lies, A silent witness to truth and lies.
Thomas sees its form, so sleek, so true, In its reflection, he sees through, The echoes of a past, a story untold, A blade that whispers of secrets old.
It’s more than metal, more than steel, It holds the power to wound, to heal, A paradox in its simple guise, A mirror of the soul's disguise.
For in its edge, there lies a tale, Of victory sweet and battles frail, Of tears and blood, of life’s brief spark, A testament in the inky dark.
Thomas writes, his words a knife, Cutting through the fabric of life, With every line, he carves his pain, A poet’s blade in an endless rain.