Silver knight at the world’s edge,

with polished boots and clean shave,

and banner dyed in maidens’ tears,

and scintillating intentions—

no one would say I told you so,

that none of it was enough

against the wind that swept you over.

---

His Majesty blessed your prerogative

with wine and holy water, and painted whores,

while the kingdom mistook a savior in you

because you were good-looking, easy to believe in

and quiet in your flaws.

They cheered as you left for love and glory,

your plumed and studded steed nodding

toward the highlands, as if partaking of the call, 

and not just walking for oats. Lower your lance, Sir,

as if you stood a chance against your pride.

---

You’d have no thrones or tapestries,

scattered palms or other trappings of fame

if your groupies had seen how you bowed at my goodbye,

and turned back as I went,

and plunged the knife between my ribs,

vying to the last to open my heart to you. 

Now I know what tears bathe your banner,

and how you quiet the cause,

how you laugh in the banquet hall at your luck with women

while the unsuspecting line up to fix God’s cruel withholding.

I was feeding the rosebed while they filled your cup,

and I was there at the world’s edge,

sending the gust that knighthood couldn’t break

but rather whipped into a fatal fury.

Have your glory, Sir. We are at your disposal.