A slender gleam of cold and silver light,
It waits within the shadows of the night.
An object forged in fire and in steel,
To serve the hand and help the spirit heal.
In the kitchen, it's a dancer's grace,
Slicing the harvest at a steady pace.
It peels the fruit and carves the daily bread,
Ensuring that the hungry soul is fed.
A doctor's tool, a thin and steady blade,
Where life is saved and miracles are made.
It cuts the path to let the healing in,
A silent hero underneath the skin.
But turn the coin and see the darker side,
Where anger flares and hollow shadows hide.
In hands of malice, it's a jagged thorn,
That leaves a trail of hearts and spirits torn.
A weapon used to strike a sudden blow,
To bring the tears and make the sorrow grow.
A tool for peace or for a cruel intent,
Depending on the message that is sent.
The metal has no heart, no mind, no will,
It does not choose to comfort or to kill.
The choice is ours, the power in the grip,
To let it build or let the balance slip.