The nights mist covered the ground,
fogging in the ladscape
holding the nights cold moist...
below the stars
just out of sight above.
These moments cascaded through a lens,
of an eye
of two -
that reflected the moist scene for a boy to see,
yet the castle lay above these blanketed moments.
Above they
ate, drink and jest,
command servants... the bawdy crowds
slam mugs down
splashing pets, sprawled along floors.
Wine, women - song
echoed with the laughter of slovenly men.
Half-dressed servants bring more to a King,
as ladies cover their necks with hands.
Jesters and their best joke...
echoing through a kings hall
a bard's song on one end -
a wooden hall,
while kegs lined the walls -
opposite
The King and Hearth
Howling winds hurled itself around the clans cocoon,
perched way up the hill,
over a kingdom, that nobody could climb out of their seats to see, anyway…
Even the King's men in their suits -
didn't seem to move.
As the night progressed,
doors rattling - the final interlude -
the King's festivities.
This small night,
greeted by a jester…
who helped detilly stumble into a room—
looking toward the king - crawling to a monarch
and collapsed to the floor.
The King rose…
removed the head of the heroic
soldier's suit.
and found a woman… a woman…
the whisper, the end was near
The bard began a toon that was soon silenced by a wave of a hand.
This day, her day,
not his, not his…
unless he looses — if he looses —
only if she never came
in
only to question
a rein to wash away
as the hero that could
have him…
washed away in the history books…
yet the King knew he must assemble his
suit, army, and stable,
even then he knew his
winning would immortalizer her.
What else could he do?
Give up?
Walk away?
Never know why he
should have acted?
Standing in the horse sweated morning fog, on some baron field,
armies stood, poised to die on a pointed command,
and kill
their respected leaders...
— trumpets sound the horses that begin
to follow the howling leathered men as they ran,
brandishing
swords, shields, and guards,
— men clashed, died, and killed for kings —
sitting back,
on horses,
clad in armor,
without danger,
except in the loss…
Do we ever learn who was at fault?
it matters,
it does.
And do we walk away?
Knowing that glory is always
tied to others' actions?
~ klaus andrews
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