How a pocket knife dies
This blade was so sharp, yet now is dull.
Will it ever cut again, only with love and care.
Left alone for such a long time.
Dust gathered upon it and rust seeped it's way in.
The color faded as time ran away.
The knife still yearns for a piece of wood,
To carve a new life if only it could.
Yet no one will hold it and death come to soon.