THE TOOL AND THE HAND

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.