Axe
Strung like a bow, and spiked like a club,
you’ll belt it and bash it, and shake the very walls.
Built for harmonics, but born for chaos,
you’ll use it to calm the soul, and to smash the status.
Your first was a present, given to tame your anger.
You tamed it, then burned it, and then gave it names.
Your first ones were lousy, loudly blasted bastards.
Your latest are fine tuned planned pokes at power.
Polished like a gemstone, and burnished like a blade,
you’ll slice and slash, and take another head from the
hydra.
It’s blessed with a voice, one that barks like a daemon,
you’ll make it belch the truth, antagonize old arrogant few.
Your arsenal now includes your latest axe blade,
your earthquake machine to sunder the foundations,
your banshee wail to pierce the walls of the mind,
and your eyes possessed of hypnotic mind flaying fire.
Carved from living stone, and toothed with knives,
you’ll loose its natural fury, spike the screaming strings.
Gift from the old gods, match for your chaotic zeal,
you’ll honour this boon, and make known your name.
Tim Hunter
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