The Claymoure

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(NOTE:  THIS POEM IS NOT YET COMPLETE!)

This is a story I made up, and decided to convert it into poem-form.

If any of it is confusing or is unclear in its context, please ask and I will answer your question in any way I can.

The Claymoure

Let us tell the tale of Teldus the squire
He lived in the quaint little town of Yorkshire
He was quite the drunkard, not close to a saint
In the little town of Yorkshire so quaint

His Sir, Knight Ward, was a kindly young gent
He tolerated Teldus wherever they went
Whatever the time, whatever the place
Teldus drank on, filling his name with disgrace

A woman one day, caught his eye in the town
All of the civilians there gathered around
Her clothes were bright and gold braces hung from her wrist
Her skin was so dark, it was surely sun kissed

The woman who caught Teldus' attention in the street
She spoke of a knight whom he would soon long to meet
"Sir Enrik," she said, "his tales stretch the plain"
"He's a savior to us, the people of Spain"

Then riding through town was Sir Enrik the Bold
He rode on a steed with armour of gold
The crowd in the town cheered as he came
Teldus glanced up at him and did just the same

He saw this man and knew his chances were slim
But Teldus wanted to accompany him
He longed to be Sir Enrik's squire
Travel the world, get away from Yorkshire

Teldus stumbled up the knight with a mumble
For the first time in ages, he was acting quite humble
He sputtered and spat his words out with such haste
He knew that Sir Enrik saw that he was a waste

But Sir Enrik just smiled at Teldus' failed plea
Teldus' eyes opened wide when he heard his decree
Sir Enrik stepped down from his valiant steed
He placed a hand on Teldus saying, "You're who I need."

"The Claymoure," Enrik preached, "is here in the fold"
"I've heard from its legend about it's slated in gold"
Teldus stood there his eyes all ablaze
Sir Enrik was to train him the rest of his days

Teldus knew quite well of the sword
That spat from the mouth of his new lord
He decided that he would show Enrik the place
Where the sword lay still eternally safe

Into the Tomb of St. Calary they scoffed
Under the catacombs of the church's undercroft
There would lie Sir Enrik's true test
His life to be taken if he wasn't the best

A wraith spoke words to the two men inside
Saying, "I am Sir Calary, and here I reside"
"I am the one to be testing your might"
"And I am sure one of you will leave us tonight"

With a quick and blunt blow to the head
Sir Enrik dropped to the floor, stone dead
Teldus, he ran, panicking with fright
He vowed though that he would return again to fight

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Poetry comes nearer to vital truth than history.

Plato (BC 427-BC 347) Greek philosopher.

AdokenxRazahl’s Poems (18)

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