Father

My white knight stands,
with blood on his hands.
He has finished the deed,
and now he must lead.

His name is Sir Simon,
a hero of men.
His story is legend,
told again and again.

He looks at his fingers with such disdain,
watches as the crimson slowly begins to stain.

My white knight is broken,
wipes his hands with his fair lady's token.
He casts it aside,
and takes life in his stride.

His name is unknown,
to me and my kin.
His story is taboo,
a tale tainted with sin.

He looks in to me with such malice,
such love.
And I know that I can never understand this man from above.