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Here is an old piece of prose I wrote long, long ago: A weapon is only as useful as it is wielded. It is only as evil as the hand that holds it. It only does good if it is bent to that purpose. It was forged in the fires of a simple blacksmith. His one intent was to make a living. It was a simple scythe. Its single purpose was to aid the local villagers in surviving. Its first employment was the threshing of another man’s soul. Its first use: killing an innocent. It lay rusted with blood as the man was tried for murder. It watched as he dangled lifelessly from the tree he had committed his felonious act beneath. It was plucked up by the iron hand of a ruthless marauder. It looked on helplessly as it was swung to and fro, impaling helpless villagers on its sharpened point. It returned to its roots; a glowing piece of molten steel in a smithy. Heated and tempered, it was reborn a sword. The sword was carried, for a time, by the captain of the raiders. It found its way into many helpless hearts; bodies were pierced by its unyielding edge. Its resting place for a time was buried in the heart of the cruel warlord that had wielded it, surrounded by his fellows. It watched as the bones were picked clean by buzzards, rust thriving on its dinted edges. Time was meaningless. It watched the world around it continue its course, slowly being buried in the sands of time. It was snatched up in the moment of greatest need. The hand who wielded it an inexperienced youngster fighting for his survival against a band of robbers. Purpose was reborn. Slowly the youngster matured; age, experience, and maturity shaping him to become the man he was destined to be. It was used once more for a bloody cause, but a just one. Not in thought of personal gain, fame, or acclaim was it yielded. Its purpose: to make wrongs right. The hand that held it aged, time taking its toll on it as well. Constant reshaping was a regular part of both it and its master. Yet shaping often makes for better resolution, and it hardens it until it is unbreakable. It was laid to rest alongside its master, his lifeless body scarred with recent wounds, one of which had taken his life. Laid to rest six feet under. Surrounded by earth, worms, and roots, it would never be of any use again. Never to harm, never to help. Never to till the earth, never to stir the earth with its killing edge. Yes, a tool or a weapon; who can tell the difference? What is used well in the hand of one, can be mistreated by another. Ware ill-use of a potentially useful tool.