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Obsolete
The anvil lies cold,
And yet the hammer waits to strike
The elusive iron
That has seen no thunder in days.
In a dark, damp corner,
Stroking a fire, he sits,
That no one sings to summon.
And yet he humors a mythical crowd,
To stroke his ego
On a trade long lost.
The halls are empty,
And no one raises a toast
To a battle commenced.
The anvil lies cold,
And yet the hammer longs to strike.
Alas, the trade is forgotten,
And the forge all but sees ghosts
Of legends past.
© windrider
And yet the hammer waits to strike
The elusive iron
That has seen no thunder in days.
In a dark, damp corner,
Stroking a fire, he sits,
That no one sings to summon.
And yet he humors a mythical crowd,
To stroke his ego
On a trade long lost.
The halls are empty,
And no one raises a toast
To a battle commenced.
The anvil lies cold,
And yet the hammer longs to strike.
Alas, the trade is forgotten,
And the forge all but sees ghosts
Of legends past.
© windrider
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