A knight at the castle gates.
Prepared to give his life.
The drawbridge opens.
The trumpets sound.
His honor not in question.
But now is the time.
His armor once golden.
That shined against the Sun.
Now bloodied and heavy.
His sword once righteous.
Now knows the terrible truth.
To keep peace, there must be war.
The men he doesn’t know.
Many he has killed.
He knows not their faces.
Only the blood on his sword.
There once was a philosopher.
That said “All men are evil until proven otherwise”.
We can’t all be knights.
But some part resides.
A craving for power.
That all men hide.
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Author:
Vaughn Walker (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: June 15th, 2022 21:37
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 11
- User favorite of this poem: L. B. Mek.
Offline)
Comments2
The power of knighthood is the chink in every knight's armour. It has always been so, so much that Launcelot has been the epitome of this innate weakness. So true. Thanks for sharing.
we covet, our neighbours
and
equate worth, by their measure
then
seek, to realise it for ourselves
greed
feeds ambition's dreams
reality, warps our yearned
dreams
into nightmares of blinkered
self-belief
success, affirms our choices
transmogrifies
our perspectives and moral
boundaries
till, what we think becomes
Truth
and so we begin, to sink - in
quicksand
of Pride and endless thirst, for
more
of anything n everything, because
'We'
become, fate
that realised reality all-consuming
wilful: conceit....
(then
some, kid
makes sandcastles, with
our, failures
end!)
a knight's tale, foretold
as it unfolds
Very well said. Unfortunately very true.
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