Point of the Matter
The king is gone, the table broken,
No words of honor left unspoken,
But only silence, cold and stark,
As I grasp the blade within the dark.
No glint of silver, no holy flame,
Remains to whisper a hero’s name.
Instead, Black Excalibur, cold and vast,
Reflects the shadows of a broken past.
Its edge is heavy with a silent grief,
A hollow promise of no relief.
The weight of the world is etched in its grain,
Binding the soul to an endless rain.
Though it was forged in the fires of old,
Its metal is bitter, its iron is cold.
It does not shine for a kingdom’s rise,
But mirrors the look in a mourner’s eyes.
Misery is the throne where the weary sit,
With a flickering lamp that remains unlit.
The blade is a tether to all that is lost,
A victory claimed at too high a cost.
So the metal stays heavy, the spirit stays low,
With nowhere to turn and nowhere to go.
A legend in shadow, a crown made of lead,
With only the echoes of words never said.
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