Rycard's Den

A sword was born,
At great expense.
The hammers rang,
The heat intense.
A fierce warrior came forth,
Strong and proud.
"Smithy" he called,
His call was loud.
The blade was bought,
The price was great.
The warrior left,
It was his fate.
He fought great fights,
Many a heads was hewn.
He was not evil,
That was his doom.
A great battle was fought,
Upon a green field.
Many thousands died,
Yet none would yield.
Two warriors fought,
Their strength renown.
They needed no help,
They fought alone.
Their blades rang out,
Clear as the day.
The battle stopped,
Such was the frey.
The warriors were grim,
Both hard and true.
They both fought for good,
Sure they would not lose.

One blade sang brighter,
It could be seen from afar.
It gave the men heart,
It shone like a star.
It’s blade gave strength,
To the wielder it fought for
The sword came down,
Through iron, skin and sinew it tore.
The duel was won,
An army destroyed.
The warrior was triumphant,
Our hero the people cried.
He is now long dead,
The kingdom long gone.
His might’s not remembered,
Not even a song.
The sword is now dull,
Its edge is now lost.
The hilt is now rust,
With many winters frost.

This is nowhere near the best poem I ever wrote.
I wrote it with my uncle. He of the artistic genius. I can see why he is an artist and not a writer. LOL.