Sword

Lethal sadness inundated by potent potables hampers my swing, just to see the blood shine on the dark and wet steel of my tacit, unyielding companion is a truculent delight whilst fighting against my own foes, with my own feuds, the steel whereas is
innocent.

In the stuffed coolness of my appeasing dreams, baptized by the one thought of ascension, away from cold steel, I feel that my encumbered heart needs no berth but the guard they called the Ochs to fortify my abandoned dream, clad in sullen perpetual repose fit for a king and his pristine truce that is a gossamer
innocence.

The Zornhau means no harm the Eber and the Zwerg in gliding, deliberate movements engross the penumbra from which no traveler returns and thus the cut is clean, is pure and reaches from a hundred leagues away into my mail, nestled in the crannies of my conscious as I wield my Schielhau into the hanging Ochs and take away all there is within the
innocence.

There is no innocence where I strike,

only Sword

is

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