The signs were there
The slightest tarnish
The lackluster sheen
Coating the varnish
They call it a patina
At the end of the day
Removed and hung
Taken off and put away
Shine became rust
With pits and dings
The armor wears out
Like most other things
But I will wear it still
Until the end of days
The battle is borne
Holding the world at bay
Stoic Poetry
Through The Cracked Window (Revisited) 