In all the adventures a man can have, surely

the last they can have in the modern age,

one devoid of dying in battle, sword carried high, noble steed

between his legs; the final brush with an opposition

much respected, perhaps in a way adored, the sweat and humidity

of the final swansong as the owner’s sword is impaled on himself

fully sheathed,

and the opposition goes on to conquer the next in line

like a domino pushed over, perhaps to enslave and terrify;

the last resting post of the humble shed, hiding away in the crevice afforded