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In the Court of The Fisher King,
He sits ceaseless, and unyielding.  
So weep his wounds and sores to the e'er senescent march of mortal ages. 

A King enshrined in stone, 
no bait upon that simple line,
no longer waiting in his patient silence,
his yearning ache thus long subsided.
For he denied that joyous empty faith, 
A hollow gift, that quiet mercy.

Never wonders, nor ever falters, 
The dreamer in his waking slumber
will not stop 'til he is sated,
Dauntless, for he never wavers.
With bated breath, 
With shining soul in gold adorned,
In the hope that one day
We may find sweet solace in our solitude.
His waiting as our precedent,
that we may go, where he does lead.
Alas, not for promised Eden 
but for the strength we gain in duty.

At night, Aflame! 
His formless spirit rises. 
Defiant of his Lord's arrival,
Long fated in the misty tales of stolen boyish valour. When he:
A Knight in youth, 
was chosen for this noble,
now forgotten post.
Yet prideful, he stands firm
as everlasting sentinel. 

Though cursed to know his errand false,
Finds reason to maintain his hope 
and stave away that black despair.
For he sees upon that shining lake, 
An ever-present visage stirring.
That relic of a lie foretold,
is but the miracle of nothingness.

Then he, the timeless.
That proud and righteous King,
Whose Kingdom far 
long-gone and nameless, 
Forever past the histories.
For you, I beg he is remembered,
The steadfast, Fisher King,
In his Court of soft and mossy boughs.
For if only memories can hold us here,
then surely fading means that all life is,
Is neverending pain and loss.

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