The Round Table's End

The lake breathes silver, a forgotten sigh, Reflecting clouds that drift across the sky. No hand now rises, clad in mystic mail, To claim the blade that tells a timeless tale. From Tintagel's wild cliffs, a legend born, A boy king cradled in a storm-swept morn. He pulled the steel, a destiny revealed, A fractured realm, a future to be healed. Round Table's promise, brotherhood's bright gleam, A fellowship of courage, a noble dream. They rode through forests where the shadows crept, And vows of honor in their bosoms kept. Lancelot's valor, Guinevere's soft grace, A tapestry of love and time and place. But human hearts with flaws they cannot hide, Sowed seeds of sorrow, where did virtue ride? The quest for Grail, a spiritual desire, A yearning deep, that set their souls afire. Yet earthly failings, jealousy and pride, Broke the strong circle, scattered far and wide. Mordred's dark shadow, treachery's cold sting, The serpent coiled, prepared its venomous swing. Camelot crumbled, beauty turned to dust, A kingdom shattered by a bitter lust. The final battle, mist and mournful cries, Beneath the weight of fate, a hero dies. Or does he sleep, on Avalon's green shore, Awaiting dawn, to rise and reign once more? The whispers linger through the passing years, Of chivalry lost and washed away by tears. A king's ideal, a vision pure and bold, A story etched in legends new and old. What truth lies buried in the ancient lore? A yearning for a justice evermore? A leader righteous, strong, and truly good, A hope that slumbers in the silent wood? Perhaps the magic wasn't in the sword, But in the spirit that his presence poured. A call to unity, to stand as one and fight, For what is noble, just, and truly right. So let us ponder by the misty lake, The price of glory and the hearts that break. The rise and fall, the legend and the man, King Arthur's echo in life's fleeting span. ©bfa041125