The sword, sheathed
in watery scabbard;
the chalice, stained
with blood of would-be heroes;
the walls, crumbled,
broken down in anguish
and strewn about like
children’s building blocks—
but we wait,
with dreams of gleaming smiles
and square jaws,
of pink Chanel suits and pillbox hats
and the saluting son who would never
live to see the castle restored.
Ashes have been scattered;
flames have been lit for all eternity.
Camelot lies in ruined splendor,
cradled in the minds of those
who seek the nexus of power—
their king sleeps forever in Avalon’s mist.
Copyright © 2012 by Christopher Chaffin – All rights reserved