Michael’s Sword doesn’t thirst for blood,
nor hungers for the fall of flesh.
The blade is a pure note struck between worlds, a tuning fork of living light.
When the Archangel draws it,
heaven descends, the inner earth rises
meeting at heart’s center.
It severs nothing living-
only cuts false from true.
What is out of key falls away.
What rings clear, remains.
The tempered steel casting down dragon
holds open a doorway of pure song,
so light passes without distortion,
already tuned to be still, and know.