I will guard and guide your way, Lady of the Lake am I.
Excalibur I have forged from the depths below,
Warding harm with a scabbard that heals every ill blow.
Merlin requested my involvement, who would refuse his command.
He was the original Sorcerer Supreme, though my nature was as quicksand.
Yet, King Arthur's life still was lost when he was betrayed.
Oedipal complex fueled by rage, Mordred born of Morgan Le Fey.
When he fell, I knew in my heart, and the sword was returned to the depths - a legendary lost art.
My mention in the English epic tale was doomed to few parts.
The truth of my role will die in the dark.
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Sniper's nest at the edge of town,
People sleeping below as creatures underground.
The gunman sights his target in night vision,
Waiting to strike with fatal precision.
The mark's routine was rote and well known,
His reign in the village was with a fist of stone.
His arrogance would cost him dear,
The hill-hidden man breathed steadily as the end drew near.
One twitch of a digit, the silenced missile flew,
Causing a final fit as the fatal bullet hit true.
The man on the hill repacked his kit,
The freed people below never to know who did it.
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What is the occasion, what of the day?
To honor the fallen, to remember the slain.
But even more so, that the anniversary so dear -
A capital friend's birth was marked a score to this year.
My companion and I have not been always,
There was a time in the middle when it seemed the end of our days.
But slowly revived through kindling of flame.
He is quite fiery, and I faded like smoke and waned.
Drawn to his brightness, we have returned.
This lyrical poem celebrates that he was born.
I have few other things I might give.
He shaped my life, gave me an example of how to live.
Here is a toast to his memory, a raising of glass.
To the settling of scores, to hurts and glories now past.
-----------------------------------------------------
What is the occasion, what of the day?
To honor the fallen, to remember the slain.
But even more so, that the anniversary so dear -
A capital friend's birth was marked a score to this year.
My companion and I have not been always,
There was a time in the middle when it seemed the end of our days.
But slowly revived through kindling of flame.
He is quite fiery, and I faded like smoke and waned.
Drawn to his brightness, we have returned.
This lyrical poem celebrates that he was born.
I have few other things I might give.
He shaped my life, gave me an example of how to live.
Here is a toast to his memory, a raising of glass.
To the settling of scores, to hurts and glories now past.
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