Dark Knights

 

Quite worthless yet called victory,

Our battles never won,

Small pavings on a well trod path,

Our moments in the sun.

 

What conflicts wait the silver knight,

What sword to brave his hand,

What steed for his companionship,

What pride in precious land.

 

When all is done we come to rest,

Cold graven in our alms,

Our intellects white sepulchre,

Corrupts our faded charms.

 

The vigil that a squire must keep,

To blessing and to curse

His soul a gift to chivalry,

But pledged to something worse.

 

And so to stand immovable,

As statues stern and bold,

Though baser metal rot and rust, 

We’re gilded bright as gold.

 

Reflections shine like Charlemagne,

In mirrors cracked by flame,

But see within the sulphured glass,

The shadows of our shame.

 

We act the part and set the scene,

Like authors of a play.

The puppets and the puppeteers

The potters and the clay,

 

Yet sometimes we despise ourselves,

Exulting in the pain,

With self reflection as the knife,

That severs every vein

 

But still we are what we must be,

We hold the tarnished shield,

Failed warriors of the blunted blade,

Who yet can never yield.

 

The causes that we must espouse,

The ogres that must die,

The truth that shines incalculable,

The incandescent lie.

 

And so by lance and crushing mace,

Our dragons we cast down,

To strut like Knights pre-eminent,

While girded like a clown.