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.