Remnants of Old

The remnants of a sword, charred and now quite unpleasant to the eye-
Encrusted in the foul blood of heinous deeds.
What once was of majesty, it hath turned against itself
Thus allowing the demise of those who knew naught of war
or the spilling of innocent blood.

For they were of innocent blood.

And the sword, its grip alone tells of majesty before it fell to evil;
Of the years before father slaughtered son and
before rich soil turned dry and only echoed the voices of the dead.
The blood wasted upon this weapon of steel is still fresh;
daubed in the memory of men with lost calls.

For they, themselves, were lost calls.

The wicked years have left a broken tool for the naked eye to see-
And as such, all glory has passed away save a single stone
still embedded within the tilt of the broken blade.
But as fall turns to winter; and years turn to decades and to centuries
The last charred remnant is burned till only ashes remain.

And our naked eyes are sealed with lids.