Across the meadows long and fair,
'pon a bay horse with high might,
did he ride away to conquer,
reflecting glories of the Fable Knight.
Sir Afen in armour gleaming wild,
a sharpened blade and heavy mace,
besaddled easy in prideful pose,
musing 'pon the battles coming embrace.
The melee holds a future memory,
of skill, brutality and of lucky chance,
all for to impress the sweet Lady
who tied her favour to his lance.
Through fields of blood and gore,
chasing the music of hurting screams,
hast thou a more invigouratiing path
for a man to create his dreams?
The fiery vigour within his veins
as the red mist crawls his eyes,
the fragrant stench of opened flesh,
horror shouts as his enemy dies.
Dagger and mace slash and swing,
the spiked ball lands a heavy maul,
unseated from his mighty steed,
'pon still corpses to soften his fall.
Sir Afen was indeed a mystic legend
and, 'pon his horse, so primly grand,
yet flounder did he most infant like,
his armour fighting 'gainst his stand.
Then aided by a passing boy squire
he stood with sword made at poise,
bellowed commands ring out fervent,
somehow dull inside the battles noise.
A flat blade dents his shiny helm,
peeling bells invade his foggy mind,
his images blur in shock surprise,
and behold the visions of the blind!
And battle drug lust, strange and fey,
feels no pain when in darker shade,
as gut slicing cuts rain down like piss,
from his enemies most truer blades.
Energy soaks faster than the dying blood,
into the dark soil 'pon the Heath,
Sir Afen's life so sadly ends this day,
taken by the Earth, bone cold beneath.
A parting wish, a Knights last thought,
the soft sweetness of his lovers kiss,
fading slow into Deaths warm arms,
with the image of his Lady Amarylis.
© Pagan Paul (05/04/18)