PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

At first I couldn't see

The rust and tarnish that clings

To your brilliant shiny surface.

My eyes were closed, I fear,

To any imperfection in your manner.

there was no blemish to perfection,

Not a fleck of ruin to your visage.



He was courtly and beautiful

Atop a stately horse

whose iron shod hooves

Rent the air.

He carried his sword,

Like a martyr his cross:

Gallant, remorseful,

The tool of war and tradition,

Reaping the benefit of dissension,

Cunning enough to show shame

For actions easily claimed to be out of his hands.





And then I learned of the zeal

In which my paramour slayed.

First to pillage, first to rend.

He led the sacking's way.

Towns alight with his ravager's fire,

As he left a plume of dust,

Carrying away a trophy girl,

To celebrate the night's festivities.

His horse a red eyed steed,

Reveling in their victims blood,

Fetlocks perpetually stained,

A vicious crimson.



At first I couldn't see

The black eating away at

Your brilliantly shining surface.

My mind sweetly blocked out

Any mar to the perfection

In which I entrusted you.

But minds are easily stained

When confronted with ugly truths.



I couldn't see,

that there was darkness to your every move.

And in my innocence, i found beauty

In that darkness.

Now I fear, I'm in too deep,

To allow myself to be dissuaded,

From the illusion that my heart has created

Beautiful charming knight

Atop a war-sound steed.

And so, I will live in darkness,

that I've grown acustom.

As disease slowly wilts it away