The Survivor

Deep within the shadows of a twilit antique shop
With cobwebs on the windows, neath a sediment of dust,
Behind forgotten artifacts, abandoned and unloved,
Sits a muslin bundle rolled up in upon itself.

Within this oblong package in a corner by its own,
Permeated with the tang of metal and of oil,
Lies a forged and polished length of good Toledo steel,
Wanting but a swordsman's hand to wake it from its dreams.

Nobles and conquistadores have borne it in the past
Strutting dandies haunting taverns looking for a fight;
To defend a lady's honor or to advocate some cause;
The arguments of centuries engraved upon the blade.

But now the wired hilt awaits a modern gentle's hand.
The spiral guard would sparkle should it catch the morning light.
Despite its age the blade is sound and ready to be drawn.
There are still a few fights in it if a swordsman could be found.

But steel no longer is the honor of a gentleman.
The arguments of latter days are fought with smiles and lies.
The sword is an anachronism cast off and forgot
By those who would not choose to leave behind so clean a wound.

So here within its wraps the sword awaits the coming day
When once again it will be borne with honor and with pride.
Well oiled, it rests within its scabbard til it's drawn anew
To serve a master who perceives the value of the sword.

To serve a master who can see the value of a sword.