The man in the dress suit, sharp and neat,
Sips tea in the garden, in high summer heat.
He converses with himself, soft and slow,
fancy words where imaginings play like a show.
Strange ascetic, bound by restraint,
his eyes, a fantasia, wild but faint—
as he dreams of his maiden in Arthur’s reign,
of swords, of crowns, of honored names.
A story of knights, of quests undone,
even with dragons slain and battles won.
Now memory fades, like the sun behind the trees,
an elegy carried like birdsong on the breeze.
In the country churchyard, stone and moss,
he contemplates his knightly loss,
A quiet grave, his maiden, a life well-spent,
yet no king’s crown, no tournament.
He sips his tea, his suit still pressed,
A modern knight, though dispossessed—
A fantasy, yet alive within his chest,
in his imaginings, he finds his quest.
WoPoLi 
Leave a comment