He is the bravest, nobl’st knight of all,
the first to touch the dark, dank edge of doom
and take the first full step only to fall,
struck mortally, helmet’s high scarlet plume
to sink toward goal no longer his goal.
The swiftest first-waters of walls and motes
shall always seize the one that few extoll;
as time meanders, one earth little notes
unless slain is brother, sister, father
or the closest friend, a cherished life-mate
who slowly descends farther and farther
till he falls to earth, spans stream some call Fate.
Then he the bridgehead, the others follow,
some so swiftly slain by sickle are lain
in rows beside their kin, some to wallow
in the same pool he swiftly sprung for them,
not smiting the earnest evil on the hill
beyond, so sinister, youth shall forget
what it is too soon, too soon they will kill
for another mound much as this, to set
upon waterside of own dark destiny.
Eric M. Vogt, Copyright 2013