THE LADY
IN THE POND
Repulsive smolders ever-blighted
light,
Converse a harbinger in placid
glass.
Where angels once bedighted sylvan
glades,
Now resolute encamp phantom brigades
And wait till what must be has come
to pass.
A broken lance drags crooked on the
ground
Where trods a skin-bag horse replete
with bones.
Upon his back a withered, armored
knight
Whose eyes confess a long-escapéd
might
Rides hunchbacked; weary years he’s
been alone.
Wherefore the maiden fair he ardent
sought
In days his arms still vigor they
possessed?
The long-elusive empress of his
dreams,
Primeval simulacrum, love supreme,
Existed only in a mind oppressed.
This champion of courage, truth, and
heart
Still clings in vain to hope of
valiant cause.
While creeping underneath his
bristled maw
A quiver turns a tenant in his jaw,
For in this wood he’ll give his
sojourn pause.
What incandescence throbs beyond the
briar?
He arduously from his horse
descends.
The steed, decaying as it stood for
years,
Expires as its rider disappears,
No more to traverse land from end to
end.
This intrigue he must extricate from
doubt—
An enigmatic moonbeam ‘mongst the
brush;
With satisfaction chiefest of his
goals
The knight in muted armor wades
through shoals
Of gath’ring phantoms, clouding in a
crush.
Discomfit clasps limbs 'neath his
metal garb,
Poor worthless warrior by his virtue
weak,
And lo! Approacheth he the crystal
pool
Whose waters lustrous mirror
heaven's jewel—
The pure inamorata he doth seek!
That hollowed man, just as a manikin
Will crumple when its pinioned parts
go slack,
Collapséd on the bank, his grasping
hands
Collecting in their clutch mere mud
and sand,
And died he there betrayed, though
soul enrapt.
Oh, eidolons deceptive, conjurers,
Illusions to delirium drove he
Who strove to bolster hope and
vanquish death
With ev'ry naïve, unprolific breath,
For all his good bespoke deformity.
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