The Knight

On his knees he went,
head bowed in admiration
for the silver blade.

Nothing comes for free-
nights he’d spent alone in prayer,
begging for this day.

Angelic he looked,
muscles bulging under white;
molten metal words

(metallic on tongue)
delighted the bystanders’
cotton-eared beliefs.

Filthy were his knees
when he received his armor;
chain mail on a tray -

honor is a meal
had with silver chopstick swords;
heavy metal hearts

pierced by promises
of bravery and riches;
blatant lies for life.

He died the next day -
a boy of twenty-seven -
by the river bed.

Black Dragon waited,
ripped his head clear from his neck,
swallowed his helmet,

and used his rib bone
(cold flesh dangling over lip);
daggers need cleaning.