Monday, July 25, 2011

The Whitened Knight

Since life’s first cry, at struggling dawn,
we live and serve our idol, Self;
to he we pay all sacrifice, damned,
until God, with wrath, doth kill our wealth.

Tis true; to start, I’m raised in good,
taught with justice, love, and all that should
define a knight, strong and true
white and shining, like dawn anew.
But He in mercy, lest we forget
still shows us black, burning, stinging debt.

Lest we forget, oh so white and pure,
the damned estate from whence we came;
under the white and shining armor, lo
the monster lives to kill and maim
our best attempts at love and strength
with hatred, selfish pride, and all
that wretched, cringing, pit of shame.

I was a knight; so white! So great!
What then? A lover’s painful cry?
Why then we hear these cries of hate,
curses from those for whom I’d die,
and not uncalled, all just and true
to curse the knight so white and great.
The irony, a blackened heart
still yet lives beneath white plate,
of this knight’s wretched lie.

As it was said, ‘loved honor more;’
but sadly realized all too late,
the value of that trusted state,
‘loved honor more;’ yet all too late.

No white knight there was, you see,
merely illusion of an enemy,
to hurt poor maiden, and puff the heart
of a foolish boy, struck by Hell’s black dart.

So then, my warning: Beware the knight,
he they hold up championed strong.
For he too is but weakling man
fully capable of blackest wrong,
a monster, but for grace from Him,
who saves such creatures black as them,
from Hell’s alluring song.

Now White Knight’s cloak is grey,
not black, for God forgives
but now, as at first, I serve but One
and not a mistress, or myself,
for fear of blackening once again.

I will serve Him, not white, but grey.
Since white was never mine to stay,
and thus my lesson, cruelly learned:
White is a cover, not a stain.
The stain is black, and will remain
until the final dues are paid,
within my body’s grave.

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