The Grande Lair

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  • Fantasy

    The Grande Lair

    The Grande Lair

    A shimmering red light shone off the horizon one day in May
    My head had the consistency of an anvil ringing away 
    My sight was unclear trying to focus through the mist spray 
    The singing of the anvil shoeing my stallions way

    While the fading light darkened from the outgoing day, 
    The knights and I bedded our horses, hobbled them, fed and watered them,
    Making them ready for the morning's activities assuring the stamina needed
    For the long hunt of the day 
    With the crow of the rooster and the dawn of the day we arose quickly moving ahead 
    For the red that shone the path to our Kingdom's dread 

    Several homes burned, crops eaten, and many a serf serving the fields fair 
    Lords and the Manor which provide food, protection, and shelter in this time of despair
    Calling upon the Realm of the Knights to fight these Beasties of land and air
    For these Beasts surely are in the realm that evil keeps which knows no care

    Nearing the horizon's shimmer we've come upon the Beasties Grande Lair
    A crevasse in the side of the mountain from a pyre and molten flare 
    Flowing eons of time's creation kept in waiting for the Dragon's care 
    Decorated with the trophies and corpses of our Fair Maiden's Shares

    For their dancing hold Dragons mesmerized in a sleepful state and glare
    Those that danced before them gave into the gaze of the Dragon's evilest of stares 
    Enslaving the dutiful Fair Maidens in waiting to serve them into long days of care
    Knowing in their meekest state could petrify them if they dared! 

    Alas, the maidens knew they had to stop the Dragon's glare 
    Thus, the maiden's Knights came in with their shields all agleam   
    Reflecting the Dragon's evilest,  preventing the glaring stream 
    The Knights illuminate the Dragons with their evilest of stares
    The Dragon's have struck their own demise, now standing thoroughly petrified,
    All alone within the King's Nightmare

    © terrasverse - all rights reserved

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    Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It's that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that's what the poet does.

    Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997) U.S. poet.

    WILLIAMDALTON’s Poems (64)

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