Madrid Sword Shop

I was inspired by a sword shop I visited in Spain. Enjoy!

After suffering the sadistically suffocating flight

only to recover in a cupboard deemed a full room,

we take a short stroll through the quaint streets.

Along broad sidewalks flanked by old buildings,

dotted with many a humble, aromatic café.

Salted hams, fruity wine and bitterly rich coffee

wafted through the air into the grey sky

that drapes the streets like a fluffy blanket.

 

I cross through a busy intersection,

where roads roughly cut into each other,  

while shops violently jut out into the pavement.

Taking a left, I find the windows of my store;

full of armors and swords like some a tacky renfest.

I enter and find the room, my little grotto

where the metallic smell of oiled steel

mixes with the old wood and moldy brick

 

Despite the rules, I unsheathe many blades

feeling the blade’s weight strain my wrist,

seeing the pulsing, rippling veins of their steel.

My eyes tracking the gilded iron snakes

that coil around my hand in flourished guards.

 

What am I? Look through my quivering eye!

Dive into the tumultuous stream of consciousness!

You see a trudging knight in dented armor?

A musketeer with fluttering cape and feathered hat?

A general of the legions of the eternal city?

 

But I’m none of these, just some Don Quixote

too small for his actual armor back home,

the bulky soaked lacrosse pads stinking of sweat,

whose Rocinante is a musty PT Cruiser;

breaking down with cackling, grinding gears.

I’m just some madman indulging himself

in his fantastic follies with no factual facsimile,

useless as the cigarette buts on the streets.

 

 

Author's Note

Anything helps!