By Joseph Beardsley
When the knights ride forth from the castle gates and the great horn sounds,
When the torches are lit and held aloft
When light flashes across the hammered bronze shields of the guard
When the seer cries out in agony from his cell within the tower,
We know they are near
We know they have come to feast
And there is nothing we can do about it.
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Beardsley’s the name, poetry is my game.
Labels: Joseph Beardsley