The Lost Arthur

King Arthur 

A king, A man 

A husband, A father 

A concept, A tangible entity 

The Lord of Britain, A Lord of Defense and War 

A life of debated fact, A life of congealed myth. 

The sword of Stone, or of Lake, 

Be it as it may, 

Served him to the end of his day, 

A poet he be, 

In this life or the next, 

The sword now a pen, 

For in the end,  

The pen may always win. 

A lost artist 

Stuck within his own rhythm, 

Perhaps to amend his mistakes, 

Perhaps to dance to the beat once again. 

A lost soul 

Of a once great tale, 

Now lost in the scrutiny of his own decisions, 

Now only left to reflect. 

King Arthur, 

Not a solid being, 

Not a king, nor a poet 

Not a ruler, nor an artist. 

No, Arthur not real, 

No, Arthur of hubris, 

No, Arthur of myth, 

For we may all be of downfall 

For we may all meet our own end. 

No Arthur not real, 

Nor be king, nor poet, 

Yet of perseverance, 

Yet of determination, 

Yet in adversity 

May he and all make amends.