Oh the stories it could tell!

If only it had the parts to speak.

Speak of death and life and rebirth.

An object so cold, so hard;

A death bringer.

Surely it would not speak of such things.

It would speak of the fire that lit it, the fire that held it:

A brilliant spark of light, like so many called him

The sun.

The living, breathing, pulsing creature that was what

Pulled its trigger.

If only it could talk,

It could spin a tale of tragedy.

Of lovers lost and found anew

Of brothers torn, rejoined, and ripped apart with last, dieing breaths

Of one who was blind and meant to see.

Ill-fated, rabble-rousing, joy-seeking -

Heroes.

If only it could form the words.

Oh the stories it could tell.

Concerning demons and gods and monkeys;

The twisted twine of fate that wraps them all together stronger than the metal chains that
bind them.

If only it could speak.

Tell a tale of the

Old scrap

Of paper that fought with it.

The magic that it spun with the power to ensnare

Entrap

Entrench

Destruction and death and life and creation.

And it would surely speak of the other weapon that joined it.

The one that, too, was an old piece of paper

And yet never was there a piece of pain used so much

In life.

But surely now, they are all gone.

The old scroll on someone else’s shoulders;

The paper fan perhaps crumpled in the dust

Of time,

Worn and withered like the tale of the one that carried it.

Only it would remain intact;

Its handle weathered by time and metal dulled by lack of care.

Oh the stories it could tell

If only it could talk.