Elegy For a Knight

Rise up, Scion of La Mancha. Destiny orbited all that you were and encompassed all that you possessed. Windmills stood ten-fold to the fore when you readied your lance and saddled your barn nag. Its whipped hide and ungulated hoofs cantering towards betrayal and unfinished vows. Your voice was virtuous in timbre against the manifest threat of cruel malfeasance that roamed the lands of bogus hills and rampant mountains charging towards the crest of your enlightened honour. Now, these burning candles about your casket hold the truth of your quests until, like you, they peter out and die. And then, recitations of your Quixotic trials shall be cleaved from history. Such is the eye of irony that wrests away your conquests. So, rise up Scion of La Mancha and challenge the lies. Ride abroad with purpose once more. Or lay where you rest and let time become a biased judge to your well laid intentions.