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Alfir

The Inventor of Words
Joined
Aug 11, 2021
Messages
554
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133
A Cut Above

Upon the morn, so soft and bright,
A ritual done in ancient rite.
A snip, a slice, a fleeting pain,
A mark that time will not regain.

A whispered prayer, a knowing nod,
A hand that moves as if by God.
Tradition’s blade, so sharp, so keen,
A tale retold, yet rarely seen.

Some call it faith, some call it fate,
A custom old, a choice innate.
A moment brief, a cry, a tear,
A symbol borne from yesteryear.

Yet whether praised or questioned deep,
It carves a path that some will keep.
For in the end, what shapes the man,
Is not just flesh, but where he stands.

"Guess what's the poem about?"
 
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