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Insane, insane what follows old
This tragedy you're about to be told.
Though we walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
It is love that we most of all bequeath.
Amongst green pastures grows a flowering field
One not tainted by what this life yields.
Somewhere in the withered forget-me-knots
It lives long enough to be what it ought.
A shining prince upon a silver steed
Riding home to find that which was decreed.
Nothing more than just a thought
Of something born here in Camelot.

Oh mastery of misery art thou my friend?
Do we have so much to gather or defend?
Send us upon this grievous plain
To battle for all that must be regained.
Oh ported soul of Arthur’s gallant lot
Send to us the dear Sir Lancelot.
He be the bravest of all hearts,
His bravery known right from the start.
He hast no legend braved in fear
Doing the right by his lady Guinevere.
Life deals us such a broken art
Of a finger painted love here in Camelot.

The quest be of ill fated charms
Where love survives the coat of arms.
To be so brave is to be a slave
Fighting for the thing we crave.
For no coat of arms can delay
Love’s onslaught once on display.
For to pour the grail back into the flask
Would be to hold love as a captured task.
For ‘tis love that captures all at last
And nothing loved can truly pass.
Though the lance laid silent Lover Lancelot
His secret survives him here in Camelot.
Always liked the Sir Lancelot stories. I hope I did him justice
Mel Harcum Aug 2015
“Half sick of shadows,” cried the Lady of Shalott,
half sick of darkness growing, doorways
twisting, with faces grotesque on yellow wallpaper

and speaking woe in whispers passed
dream-thin through limbs and veins and minds
because a window is a stop sign until

opened, and locks are stitches sewing chapped lips
tense as the web woven, intricate designs
layered vibrant color on a lonely loom in a tower

otherwise lightless, heavy with pressure,
bearing down on the Lady of Shalott and her art--
made up in the image of Camelot.
A mythical reality
of Presidents and Kings
Oval Offices, Round Tables
And the power each one brings

A dream of unknown future
Of what we wished to see
A fictional creation
Of life not meant to be

Magical creations
That lived just in our mind
Families so cursed
There's just remnants left behind

A time of recollection
Be it near or long ago
A true tale of "what if?"
That we all will never know

Brothers dead, dreams vanished
Future Princes of the Realm
Plantagenet or Kennedy
Which son will take the helm?

A Mythical creation
A place we want to see again
Is there royalty in waiting?
To be the leader of free men
Em Mar 2014
There was a king
With a crown of gold
And a tale
Centuries foretold.

The present ruler,
Son of past,
The first in line,
And the last.

The stuff of legend
And tavern song,
By word of mouths
Of vagabonds.

Kind, courageous,
Just, and wise -
King once and in
The future, rise.

Deathless, though
Mortal was he
In the fields
He battled valiantly.

Son of one,
Father of all,
His children witnessed
Their great king's fall.

Though the memory
Of their king's claim,
Has immortalized
His regal name.

In the text,
History and culture,
He remains ruler,
Once and future.

And to this day
His people sing
The king is dead,
        *Long live the king!

— The End —