The Sword

A tear runs down the sword.

As it stand erect in the earth’s soil.

Shimmering, reflecting, the sunlight.

Cold and hard edged in gold.

Whose sword, whose history.

Handled in gold, and precious gems.

Lain.

Slain.

At the side of a perfect work of art.

Besides its master.

It stands a marker.

Of its neighbor.

Sir! lies regally.

Eyes open.

Staring intently into heavens void.

A soul-less relic.

The body lies.

And yet beauty belies the heartbreak.

The serenity of the moment.

The sword a fitting testament of nobility.

Lady stands her tears falling delicately.

Running in stream down the blade.

In reflection the lady looks.

At a man once loved neer forgotten.

The man no more.

The icon the sword, will live on.