There is that great protrusion from out the mouth; not the chest, nor the groin. Covered with cotton shirts and technicolour ties lies this well-oiled machine.
Some who make long, boastful strides sweat under its strain, betrayed by its rusty nuts and bolts, well-worn pistons and fetid entrails. And in their haste their bones crack and break as they brake, and they ooze and traipse through the thick and slick, crude shadows. And I myself do even sputter and spurt such drivel and tripe, evoking lost glories, past prides and old war stories.
That is, until the day that this rusty preacher’s sword is withdrawn, blade beaten, smoothed and within the sheath of another. Where our lips make light work of old vanities and wives’ tales.
In truth, swords do not become ploughshares, indeed they are keen and double edged, piercing and touching the thoughts, soul and heart of the other.
For in love, iron sharpens iron.
The Philosopher's Poet 