I Travel the Doomed Hills of This Reality
A knight in shining misery, I quest
for grail of midnight
reprieve. My flag is failing,
dissipating in the wind. Am I becoming
invisible? Every footstep echoes
with broken attempts at foraging a silence
to claim as my own. My eyes are heavy.
My armor, blooded by my thoughts.
I am my own crown of thorns,
pricking myself to see if I am something
more than a memory
time continues to forget.
The Dream of Sir Lancelot at the Chapel of the Holy Grail -- Edward Burne-Jones