They roll down leaving a salty trail
between sand colored hills
to spill off the edge of the ravine.
Above, the sword watches
from its white throne room
blind to anything but logic.
The salted path is carved and re-carved
from its red orb origins
where the battle continues to rage.
Its agile point thrust upward
as if its nose turned in disgust
to the supposed misery it must observe,
The sword decrees strength reign
while the tears continue to stream,
their crystalline surface wrought
with one thousand taut
strings of the soul.