12-06-2012, 04:56 AM
Beyond the Promised Land
Sometimes I dream of a white knight, or maybe is just a friend? But then its only a mirage, faceless with blurred edges, undefined. Sometimes I dream of white flags, my personal war done, don't matter even if it's not won but the peace of mind would be nice.
But reality along with the mirror are cruel mocking truths. What knight would want this unvirtuous wench? Who wants to befriend a social pariah?
I'm tired. Knuckles never healing, knees permanently bleeding, pretending I don't got no feeling. Armours rusted, shield battered, swords bent an busted, climbing an falling from the citadel's buttress. Where even if I do clamber over I'll never be welcomed or wanted.
From my desert of scorned earth I'm bombarded by images of the 'Promised Land'. Always its just over the next horizon. Once I tried to get in legitimately, passport in hand an some failed GCSE. From the battlements they jeered at me, then slammed the door on this refugee. The fires of hate had been lit,but the declaration of war went ignored, an army of one is no threat.
No arrows can penetrate my armour, no axe can dent my shield an no lance can pierce this heart. But ignorance an arrogance an laughter, are wounds that penetrate so very deep.
Under a rock in my wasteland I see warm fires glow in their keep. Alone, sometimes I weep, an wonder why am I banished ? I realise now the longer I'm here, the worse the smell of decay that wreaks an festers from my every pour. Nothing grows in Hell, I've tried, I live off the rubbish an waste from the citadel. Kept alive to be used as a lesson in failure.
What self respecting knight would want this ?
Sometimes I dream of a white knight, or maybe is just a friend? But then its only a mirage, faceless with blurred edges, undefined. Sometimes I dream of white flags, my personal war done, don't matter even if it's not won but the peace of mind would be nice.
But reality along with the mirror are cruel mocking truths. What knight would want this unvirtuous wench? Who wants to befriend a social pariah?
I'm tired. Knuckles never healing, knees permanently bleeding, pretending I don't got no feeling. Armours rusted, shield battered, swords bent an busted, climbing an falling from the citadel's buttress. Where even if I do clamber over I'll never be welcomed or wanted.
From my desert of scorned earth I'm bombarded by images of the 'Promised Land'. Always its just over the next horizon. Once I tried to get in legitimately, passport in hand an some failed GCSE. From the battlements they jeered at me, then slammed the door on this refugee. The fires of hate had been lit,but the declaration of war went ignored, an army of one is no threat.
No arrows can penetrate my armour, no axe can dent my shield an no lance can pierce this heart. But ignorance an arrogance an laughter, are wounds that penetrate so very deep.
Under a rock in my wasteland I see warm fires glow in their keep. Alone, sometimes I weep, an wonder why am I banished ? I realise now the longer I'm here, the worse the smell of decay that wreaks an festers from my every pour. Nothing grows in Hell, I've tried, I live off the rubbish an waste from the citadel. Kept alive to be used as a lesson in failure.
What self respecting knight would want this ?
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