Poem: Broken Sword

A short little jaunt into a medieval fantasy. Please enjoy.

I know no other way and draw my broken sword.
The jagged edge, which once pointed would pierce the flesh,
pathetically inspires scorn. He mocks me then:

Will you now with a blade not half as long as mine
still draw? How wonderful a fool. Be jester to
my coming court and put that sword away. Thus I:

Not so, late page, betrayer of the crown. My joke
may slaughter yet. And discourse swift, for I am not
of graceful tongue, did sweeping lunge to take his head.

(I’m sorry my post tonight is short. Among the myriad of trial I hope to prevail against, a toothache comes against me. I am drained.)