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May 142012
 

by Deckard Croix

 

 

“You’ve slain me,”

Cried the felled white knight,

His armour rusted with age;

A mirror to reflect his better days.

The history of this figure is now.

 

For, in his better days, there was nothing new;

No lie he insisted was true,

No war remained he failed to wage,

No price conceived that could not be paid,

No maiden that did not need saving.

 

And now, upon the brink of the coming night,

The course of the day being done,

Staring at the last glimmer of dusk in fright,

Blinded by the husk of a perilous sun,

Consumed by the thought, a feeling, that he must

Remove the blaze from his armoured rust,

The white knight, now as pale as the coming moon,

Knelt wan and shivering as far gone as the dawn was soon.

 

And the cry he wailed within the helmet affixed,

Was a whispered groan without.

His lips moved little, his breathing asyphxed,

No curse could remove all doubt,

Of the renditions of defeat within the globe of doom,

And the coming night came with delight like an eager, loving groom.

The world blinked once and obeyed with a final orange light,

And the silver moon, a god of women, shone bright

Upon the rusted metal of the pale, conquered knight,

No alignment of stars could set aright.

 

He arose like a mass of inverted green,

Trembling like a stuttering tambourine.

And when his struggle at last had run,

His armour caked in sweat and vermillion;

He stumbled through the town square, drunk with fatigue.

No longer fair, no longer there,

His helmet fell upon cobbled stone,

Where fell, days before, a glorious procession,

Where no one had cause to bereave,

No enemies to be seen;

Serene.

 

In a recess, shaded from the moon’s cycloptic eye,

His head resting upon the breast of his rusted shell,

The people of the town walked quietly by.

No gaze lingered on his slumberous frame,

No lips asked him from whence he came;

Only the glance of an urchin with her eyes filled with tears,

The Mephistophilic smile of the raving lunatic,

The cacophonous howl of the infant who mimics all she hears,

The unfortunate folk of the city whom he had so callously effaced

Have, in their plight, warmly embraced,

The fallen knight, like Absalom

Who, fleeing the capture of their sinful ways,

Are entangled in a web not of their own design,

But by the wiles of another they were forced to resign;

Their loyalty, love, and passion disgraced,

A fate no collection of stars could erase.

 

 “Subject me to your mercy,” he wanted to say,

“I’m ready, at last, to receive it,”

But his face grew quiet and still,

And the moon peered in on the kill

Its grin reflected on his rusted will.

 

The lunatic’s voice was sudden and shrill,

“The white knight has been slain!”

And all believed him to be insane.