Fabled in the
chaos of your court,
A thrice-denied disciple of your heart.
(I recall you dubbed him Yaakov,
Though he wrestled with demons).
Rather than eternise an ordeal,
Do you dare the sharpness of his ire
If such friction consummated the final
Campaign between a courtier and his queen?
Should you prefer a table-turning duel,
I could bare both tongue and sword to face
Your former paladin, proving your word
No more motto than mockery -
We both know you count Cassandra among
A repertoire of faultless masquerade.
Indexed in the back of his brain,
A sacramentary of your most dangerous deeds;
Sealed between his lips, a promise,
The talisman pocketed during the last rebellion;
Captured in the stasis of his eye,
A tear to taunt the impudence of his faith.
No devil’s talk to lead him to mercy,
Dark minstrels chant the lyric of demise.
Because he loved, yet failed to comprehend
This love weighed less than the breath of life,
Dressed in dry-boned dreams,
Clutching his memories crumbling and cold,
Unaccompanied but by candle, book and bell,
He walks a private calvary to hell.
