The Day Chivalry Died

A high pitched moan,

A low pitched groan,

The wardrobe door ajar.

Under dim light,

An ancient knight,

The wrinkled warrior.

He peers inside,

And sighs with pride,

To see his armor suit.

He reaches in,

To touch the tin,

The steel and silver truth.

He traces down,

The plume, the crown,

The helm, the plate, the belt.

Once gleaming bright,

Now cased in night,

Tarnish and rust he felt.

A pang of pain,

And strident strain,

As he unsheathes the sword.

The sword so stout,

He wields about,

And utters not a word.

The olden days,

Like fading haze,

Return to him in waves.

Dismaying dames,

And noble knaves,

And dragons deep in caves.

The sword, the shield,

The battlefield,

The banners they would fly.

When weapons wield,

The foes would yield,

Neath blades once brandished high.

But that was then,

When men were men,

And blood flowed through the reins.

And this is now,

Sadly somehow,

The men are full of shames.

He stops and stares,

For no one cares,

For what once gave him pride.

He turns away,

And mourns the day,

The day chivalry died.