Where is that fresh flush of life?
Wherefore stolid complacency stagnant in my gut?
Where went the cold edge pulled from a sheath,
Shining proud in the sun, ready to cut?
How dull it is now, tarnished red with age,
Unoiled and unsharpened, naked to the sky?
How much cold iron is left below the rust?
What mettle is held in that core?
Shall we burnish it and see;
Rasp the edge until it is once again sharp?
Reveal the cold beauty of the sword:
Serene and archaic symbol of ancient times.
Can it slay our modern creature comforts,
Cut through the Gordion knot wound about us?
(Yup, I'm in a funk once again: writing bad poetry in between bouts of practicing martial arts outside.)