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A Knight's Poem

by Mike Hermon, DallasKnight

Former Medieval Times knight in Dallas;
Currently in The Guild jousting company

An armoured arm rests against a streaming flank.
The bold horseflesh he has to thank.
His chain-gloved hand caresses the mane.
He rests his sword, releases pain
And looks into that other world
Which opens when he stares
Into the amber orb of his mount's eye.
Do not give up, it seems to say,
I will bear you until the world's end and beyond.
You, my steed, you know my need.
You nuzzle me while here I bleed.
Without, from wounds in battles fought.
Within, as love's losses are hard taught.
My manners are those of the Knight Campaigner,
Savage in the fray, restrained off the field.
Many maidens are happy to have me as their champion,
But none give me their favour to wear,
Nor their hand to grace a pain-filled night.
It is the musk of days in the saddle
And not the sweet henna of her hair
That I smell.
Not knowing who "she" is
Or if she will ever be.
I was born displaced in time.
My soul belongs to an age
That finds only an echo here,
And some applause,
But only as a dying art.

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