This pen
Is left for
The Wonderer,
No room left
For a sword

We all understand, this phrase
Is dull, that’s why we cast
Aside it’s word.

Of all the days left, the paper
Chose today to rot and lament
In it’s own undoing,
What more should a
Swordless man fear?

Perhaps his own paper-trail that’s
Been left, scattered
With glyphs of his first names.

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