Obsidian

From deep within the earth,
Born of fire, darkness and stone
Gave birth to weapon many used to own.
A bladed tip hits bone, it chips.

An omen surrounded by pain and blood,
Then dropped on the ground to be consumed by mud.
Covered in veins to hide the pain,
For it had a dark past of death and strain.

Once in the past it caught my eye,
Its light a gleaming lie.
For it was as dark as night
And rough to touch.

I had a look, and on that day
from its dirt-covered grave I took.