Knight Fall

The night when flowers slept

their soft, pink petals huddled tightly

warding off the sweeping wind-

A lone gravestone jutted among scattered rocks

danger marked upon every scratched rune;

How the grass had shivered that day

Light was but a waning wink 

clouds smearing the dying color miles 

across the sprawling fields, each leaf

of each resting giant fluttered, tinged gold

by the wisps of sun that evaded night

Alas, the time was too much of a majesty,

Too picturesque for nature to let be,

too momentous for naught to occur,

too grand for tragedy to leave alone;

And so it was, that atop the hill in the meadow

there rung the sound of snapping reigns

The good knight rode in atop his good horse

his tunic of coarse wool streaked by blood

he wore a suit of mail, the edges rusted

His one hand clenching the reigns of the horse

the other wrapped around the hilt of his

defeated weapon, a scar-worn sword

Through his helmet his eyes could’ve been glimpsed

eyes burning with ferocity, yet calmed by affection

for the King he fought under, the horse he fought with,

and the people he fought for

He glanced back at the army that approached:

a man against a thousand and yet

his eyes did not waver and he let loose

a war cry tinged with such savagery

such force, such meaning, such passion

that the wind quieted and the army stopped

Not a word escaped his helm, not a sound

He stood gallant, facing the men that 

had his death in mind and he knew

that inevitability was to be the name of the night

and that the stars that twinkled above

would be the ones later twinkling goodbye

With a burst he rallied his beast to run at

the massive force that marched closer

and he swung his sword over his head

his cape billowed sharply in the air

the hooves of his good horse were unseen

Together they flew, they soared

And it was then that an arrow too flew

and landed between the lines of mail

through the coarse tunic and rough skin

and embedded itself within the knight’s heart

He fell, the good knight, back from his perch

and the good horse stopped and turned around

it neighed into the night sky, a mournful cry

and as arrows landed upon its hide

it too lay down next to its master, its friend

It was only later, when the army had departed

the wind had resumed its sweeping

and the moon was bright upon the sky

that the flowers awoke, slowly unfurling their petals

to witness what had come to be that night

and as they wept, more lept from the ground

a wreath of pink encircled the dead

and as more grew, as they covered the heroes

and as they gently kissed them goodbye,

the world too awoke to a new dawn

to find out how the knight had fallen.

Hey guys......The painting above seems to me an illustrious yet simple portrayal of a knight at the end his rope, a person experienced with loss. It is based on a Russian fairytale (quite an oxymoron), featuring Ilya the Knight and is titled "Knight at Crossroads". All it took was a moment of inspection and I knew I had to write about it, although my words might never do this masterpiece justice.