deepundergroundpoetry.com
The Road to Camelot
The road to Camelot is barren now
Fell weeds rise up in impudence
within the furrowed tracks
of traders’ carts and make the way
into the castle's legendary sheltering
impassable.
Atop the royal fortress towers
the once bright dragon banners
that had snapped disdain
upon the Saxon hordes
are left wind torn, sun bleached,
and shorn of all the furling music
they had roundly made
when Arthur's troops rode out with pride
beneath their colours and
their songs of heraldry.
The king is dead.
Long biered away to Avalon
to lie interred within its sacred earth.
Excalibur now rusts, weed stroked,
mud swathed, within a stale lake’s depths.
And cloistered Guinevere now hangs
her wimpeled head in shame.
And Lancelot has fled, dishonoring his name,
to Joyous Gard.
The king is dead.
The table lies in splinters now.
There is no longer any worthy head
that we, his knights now sorrow led
by Bedivere, who sighs abandonments
towards Glastonbury's glades,
to which, with fervor, we may cry,
“Long live the King”.
Fell weeds rise up in impudence
within the furrowed tracks
of traders’ carts and make the way
into the castle's legendary sheltering
impassable.
Atop the royal fortress towers
the once bright dragon banners
that had snapped disdain
upon the Saxon hordes
are left wind torn, sun bleached,
and shorn of all the furling music
they had roundly made
when Arthur's troops rode out with pride
beneath their colours and
their songs of heraldry.
The king is dead.
Long biered away to Avalon
to lie interred within its sacred earth.
Excalibur now rusts, weed stroked,
mud swathed, within a stale lake’s depths.
And cloistered Guinevere now hangs
her wimpeled head in shame.
And Lancelot has fled, dishonoring his name,
to Joyous Gard.
The king is dead.
The table lies in splinters now.
There is no longer any worthy head
that we, his knights now sorrow led
by Bedivere, who sighs abandonments
towards Glastonbury's glades,
to which, with fervor, we may cry,
“Long live the King”.
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