Vérité

“Clouds of morning sky do this beautiful world no justice,” he said with a broken smile.
Climbing through vines of omnipresent doom,
Knowing that death was by his side, ready and willing
To grasp him by his chiseled should and shake him asleep,

He smiled.

An odd, bittersweet smile.

The twist of his lips spoke
Of truth, of a treacherous luminous tale, yet to be told
Yet to be seen.
And so he rode, that man,
And fought, overpowering every evil obstacle
Saving man and child and beast alike.
After rescuing soul after miserable soul
He stood alone, his sword lying lame
In the weeds and wet orange leaves
And he looked to the sun
He looked to the sun
The glowing halo of dusk in the sky
And the curl of his lip was rueful
Yet slightly amused with the world.

“Rays of afternoon sky do this beautiful world no justice,” he whispered.

Sinking to his knees,
His hands curled around the auburn leaves.
They bent languidly to his touch.
A burst of sunlight, and he was alone
A silhouette, crouching on the ground.

Day after day,
he defended the weak
And protected the helpless fops
Rescued the maidens, swooped for a child
And never offered a word.

And no one questioned.

For in this twisted world of ours,
We find ourselves seldom questioning
The blessings and heroes that come our way
In the moments of darkness.
We take miracles for granted.
As was he.

And so he died,
After a marvelous duel against an evil monarch
And striking down his enemy
But his wounds weakened him,
He collapsed alone in a field.
When looked up,
At the stars that grew dimmer with every moment and every quiver of his eyelids,
He smiled through his blood and tears,
Through the coursing pain of his slowing heart,
“Stars of night sky do this beautiful world no justice,” he choked.
“For this world within I am dying is full of good, and full of truth.
They did not see me, but I saw them.”
Even as he died,
A victim of a merciless tyrant,

He smiled.

An odd, bittersweet smile.
The twist of his lips spoke
Of truth, of a treacherous luminous tale, told to naught but himself
That had been seen
But never given a second glance.
Hours later, he was discovered
Under a drying oak tree.
Then he was buried, in an unmarked grave
Under that oak tree.
No one remembered his name,
And those who laid him to rest,
Wondered;
Who was he?
They piled the grave with sod,
Never knowing that he,
The dead man under the oak tree,
Was their liberator scores of time over
How he saved them from ruin
And death, a fate he himself knew was coming.
His name was buried under the withering oak tree,
His secret died with him under the stars,
Under a moon of ivory,
Under stars of night sky.