chevalier

long ago there lived knights

in the moors of aviemore, in the hills of belgium, in the fields of northern japan-

with armor that got used a maximum of thrice the amount of blood used to slay his enemy

before he, too, had to mend his body

as well as the stallion, flickering by the candlelight that he now tends to so dearly.

they sweep broken and chapped lips against cold bloody metal

“for pallas,” they chant,

as they drive their handsome animals into the war.

centuries later, there sits a girl-

no, a woman-

with hair helios could’ve threaded as silk and eyes that seem to burn-

atop a throne. she does not have a saddle or a horse or a foal-

but she has a crown

and the loveliest smile etched onto her visage.