Poem: The Old Sword

Hung there after fights,

Against horrible beasts,

The sword made of steel and stained blood,

And containing the stories of many men before.

But now it sits there,

Wobbly on the wall,

And waiting for whatever adventure needs it next.

Whatever thing should grace its purpose.

But the world is not that world anymore,

The beasts were slain,

And the hides hung out to dry,

The people who walk the world,

Worry about other things,

Being late,

Being poor,

And evil that cannot be so easily stabbed.

Special thanks to: Melissa Potter

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