Shadows of Endor
What manner makes the shrill breath less,
when coursing winds cut the furrowed sails
set heartened into life's frail craft,
threatening boastful revenge, both front and abaft,
fearing not the chants of uttered boldness.
Where does abide the sailor sure of heart, pure of mind and soul,
willing, chance-bound, to brave the issuing blow,
knowing not of lashing set against the swell,
mindful only of passion's lost child, so meek and mild,
daring to cross the gates of Hell...
Who takes the mantle as his own, evoking spirit dormant
and idles not the chivalrous sword,
honed on bones of charity past and relinquished,
mocking tones of battles lost fill his head and word....