Shield

old, battered and wartorn,
handles soft and worn,
in a warm corner rests the oaken shield.
Traveled many a far field.
Resting here in a simple place,
now knowing but one man's face.

Made of leather, Iron and oak,
what once smelled of blood, smells simply of smoke.
for at this fireside,
the proud warrior grows wide.
A weary soul amongst a weary world,
having already seen fat unfurled.
hungry for heaven and the life of piety,
cast forlornly aside by society.

The shield watches with patience,
feeling the tug of the ancients.
The call of all warriors to fade away,
to never again save the day.
The easy way out,
the path through the clouds of doubt.
But the shield remains strong and stout,
ready to fend off all that doubt.
all the martial mind must do,
is have a sturdy shield to look to.