A weapon never chooses
who falls and who stands tall;
it’s just metal, mute and waiting,
it knows nothing of the fall.
It has no thirst for violence,
no hunger for the end;
it’s a shape, a shell, a silhouette
that bends to who would bend.
The killer is the motion,
the breath behind the steel;
the quiet spark of judgment
that decides what’s false or real.
The weapon is a witness,
a servant to a choice;
it only speaks when summoned
by a darker inner voice.
So don’t blame the cold machinery
for the heat inside a human;
the tool is just the echo
of the one who makes the plan.
And if you fear the weapon,
you’re mistaking what is true:
the danger isn’t forged in iron;
it’s forged in what we do.
A weapon does not kill;
it waits for someone’s will.
The hand defines the ending,
and the heart decides the kill.