I saw him
Arthur
The inner cry
In his glen
Frustrated
Infuriated
By what was
What could have been
Hands bloody
Hands raw
Wrinkled brow desperate
To pierce
The exterior
As
Silver Mail
Bled red
Frustrated hands
Cry for redemption
Yet
The stone refused the sword
Belligerent
As stubborn as he
Refused to yield
While memory
The great deceiver
Ate his mind
The tendril touch
Inner thigh
The radiated heat
The supine sigh
Lost
Lost
Memory blocked
Perhaps the truth
Was more than sought
If only
Seeds had not been wrought
In taking root
Stoic stare
Stood strong
Against
The bare fissure
Forever closed
Yet beckoning
Passioned heat
Eternal flame
The trace
Of the cry
For a blood
Forever flowing
Through the gulag garden of eden
That could not bear the weight
Of something so simple
So straight
Cast out
Jack-a-bout
While truth brutalized
Beaten
Cracked and scorn
But never feel alone
For the sword
Refused the stone
Let it never be forgot
There is a place called Camelot
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