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The gallant knight once spoke:
terrors and horrors he’d seen,
fire-forged clanks and screams,
corrupt kings; heroes that broke.
His eyes were stern; old and wise,
afflicted by swords of thought.
In his mind’s eye he battled still,
in wars that scarred the skies.
He could no longer lament or feel,
so adrift was he in the past,
comrades and lovers fell and fall,
with swift wounds he couldn’t heal.
Trembling, his hands betrayed him,
they cried the tears his eyes would not,
his ale untouched, his heart shaken,
in an lifetime sad and dim.
The gallant knight never existed,
his words and acts never scripted,
yet one could discover oneself in him,
unless, you once missed it.
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Art is addicting, an addict am I,
truth is I, the truth am I, the truth a lie!
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He lived, yet was already slain
