Strapped to his sides the swords seem more like scars than tools.
They are aged and grown over with time..
Ancient and surely not as violent now as they were when created
They scream of a past that is intriguing and a bit off kilter
This old man creeping about the woods
His blue green eyes twinkle with flecks of gold in them
His battered violet and golden shield haphazardly thrown on his back
A bird that never existed etched upon its face
His gauntlets a deep blue that has faded appearing to be a fishes skin
He almost looks like he grew up out of the swamp he travels
As much a part there as the water and the snakes
And yet he is as foreign as a diamond in a hog trough
His graying hair streaked with blond pulled back and tied with twine
A mild curiosity at best he seems to be, at worst a crazed old man
Guarding all that he knows is dear, children, family, far and near
He sees the way they look at him and he smiles behind the tears
A warrior this clown once was and once again shall be
He slides away into the swamp for work he has to do
They perhaps will never know or recognize his love
But that is not the reason he lives the life he does
