This is something bombastic,
Mellowed with age;
Yellowed like paper on a dusty shelf,
Taken down every few years as a reminder and a wish.
That trusty sword swaddled in rust,
Resting by it’s master’s grave;
A winedrunk serpent, gone to vinegar in the sun.
Haunted by brief moments of lucidity,
An everslipping veil.
A fool finds his gold in a shimmering heat haze,
A pyrite whetstone.
I really like this! I imagine the pyrite whetstone is a letter, perhaps written in pain and heartbreak, that you keep to remember what you’ve learned, or what you want.
I really like the line about the snake gone to vinegar, though I haven’t quite decoded it, which is totally fine. I’m down to carry the riddle around. And of course, I like the idea of a pyrite whetstone. Also the word bombastic grabbed me, as I’ve used it several times in conversation the last few days and I’m intrigued as to why, suddenly. Is it in the collective pulse, I wonder?