Scabbards… so many scabbards

Jeweled, war-torn, tattered, pristine

Each a symbol of its time

Its use

The mark of its owner

Now, reduced to the homes of the broken

The rusted and dull


Blades that no longer sing with bloodlust or smite

Death upon enemies, glint proudly

Glory over…

Spears, relics of the past

Shafts that once resided in the grip

Of warriors

Now condemned to be gawked at

No longer feared

Ends blunt, non-existent

Wood splintered, cracks in the grain

Ornate carvings, once to display

The skill of craftsmen, to boast culture

Now simply add to the satirical parody

It has become

Canons of war

Heavy steel, dull shine

No more does acrid smoke

Spew forth

No more does it cough out damage

The finish now marred

By scratches, left by the hands of time

Immobile, irresponsive

Collecting memories, no longer shaping history

Stands there, sits there



Broken, battered

Forgotten and frozen

A display of hollow grandeur

Dignity swallowed

… simply empty decorations.