Sheath Poem by Martin Byrne

All day we dream of putting down our sword
Blood lust battle is done, it’s time for home.
Home has no sheath, so the battle rages on.
Sheaths can not be made, they are found in this world.
Lying in daffodil grass and bright sun dresses
Waiting to quite the soul of a sword and soldier.

To nurture and submit
To pleasure and hold dear
To share quite moments
And the loud moments in battle
To sing of victory and dance in happiness
To weep for, weep with, and weep upon
Is there such a sheath?

With beautiful inscriptions of gold and silver
Bearing the name and weight of my blade
Studded, encrusted, lavished with colored jewels
Jewels for each emotion. Envy, anger, serenity, happiness
Content, worry, anguish, sorrow.
Each color an emotion of the sheath, sheath of rarity

Are some swords forged without a sheath?
Doomed to stay out in the battle those are.
I see brother blades become rusty, battle worn, frail, and tired.
No sheath to rest in, upon, with.
Sheaths with their high standard of blade
Do not see the weariness etched into we that
Bite into flesh, sever limbs, tear hearts, and
Protect the riches of the Rich

So sheath me, please.
Allow me the comfort of your
Designed black market blanket
The bliss of your womb.