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The Would-be Knight
A sluggish fool, armed with his father's rusty sword. Hilt gripped in his mouth, and just like his father before, he fails to understand the difference, between the times when he should be gripping it tighter, and the times he should just be spitting the stupid thing onto the floor.
His hair is all matted, his tunic in disarray. The coat of arms on his shield is no longer on display. His boots are worn with holes, his chainmail covered in rust. He's probably either drunk at the tavern, or asleep under some stairs covered in dirt and dust.
The sounds of his tongue making him a wretch. He has no grand quest, no damsel to fetch. The fool already caught her, and lost her. Slaying her with the very sword he received from his father.
There is a wistfulness in his chest, yet no solace is found. As he lay his head each night on the cold hard ground. Vigilant for nothing but foolish endeavors; This would-be knight does nothing but wander on forever. Father's sword gripped in his teeth, instead of the sheath...
Where it should have stayed all along.
© Robert Young
His hair is all matted, his tunic in disarray. The coat of arms on his shield is no longer on display. His boots are worn with holes, his chainmail covered in rust. He's probably either drunk at the tavern, or asleep under some stairs covered in dirt and dust.
The sounds of his tongue making him a wretch. He has no grand quest, no damsel to fetch. The fool already caught her, and lost her. Slaying her with the very sword he received from his father.
There is a wistfulness in his chest, yet no solace is found. As he lay his head each night on the cold hard ground. Vigilant for nothing but foolish endeavors; This would-be knight does nothing but wander on forever. Father's sword gripped in his teeth, instead of the sheath...
Where it should have stayed all along.
© Robert Young
