So grey the day that matched his thoughts
And dark the mantle of his blackened soul
For such was he, a knight of sorts
Now under pay and King’s control.
It wasn’t once this way back then
His lovely wife, and children, two
But Slayers came with many men
Entire families by sword they slew.
For days he sat by those three graves
He wept inside and nothing said
And such as this oft times depraves
He so believed his soul was dead.
Dressed by his squire in armour, black
And brought to him his fine sharp blade
A vow he made to strike them back
His silent calm left men afraid.
And so to King he took his skill
With others for Slayers he searched
So often went they for the kill
To dark his soul unerringly lurched.
And so he stands in Slayer’s camp
And foul his mood and ire
For in his left hand is the head
Of he who turned life dire.
The head he tossed into Hell’s pit
They stood and watched it burn
But only guilt his heart did fit
His family never to return.
Each time he fought he longed for
The blade that would set him free
But such was the gift from his Angel
That his death seemed never to be.
And so he fought bravely every day
More killing and slaughter he wrought
His mood wouldn’t lighten his squire would say
Till the solace of death that he sought.
©Joe Wilson – A knight’s tale…2015