My Ancient Dagger

In the natural saltwater pond,

I saw a minute yet lengthy dagger,

I threw my hand into that pond,

Before the waiter could take a second glance.

In my hand it was not sharp, but something,

That would cause subtle and detectable havoc,

I always flashback to that moment,

Whenever I look at it on my desk.

The smell always reminds me of New Zealand,

For that was its original home,

It hasn't got a razor blade but a jagged edge,

The green string allows me to slip the dagger round my neck.

When I'm troubled the rough string brings back uplifting memories,

For it comforts me,

All stress and anxiety flee from the dagger and me,

It fills me with satisfaction, security and strategy.

My dagger was once clearly a hone,

But even after awhile my dagger is still saline,

And will never jitter, but forever be patriotic.