galahad

Melted in duress, are we poured into iron molds of conspiring dreams? Do we stand in the accumulated legacy of hookéd hope? Install a little blush to suggest blood flows and walk the prescribed steps in the calendar of days. The words of shape slide down time like a hurried fear. 

But I hear another name called from the forest. A darkened cave of trees, buttressed by boles of scarred and ugly years, hides the voicer. Yet the mystery is a freedom; the darkness a fearful call to see another shape of things. 

Can I step the stranger steps? Can I utter the foreign tongue? Can I brave a dark of the neverland? Can I live a death?

I have a frame about me spun by the love of strangers. Hemmed to a boundary of the components of words' wandering ways. And it is peace to them. 

But there is a fountain in that wood that whispers a name that might be mine. And this armor rings the trickle wrong. And I can't hear it. And their words drown the water's. But I know it is in the maze. And it might name me known. Rather than

Galahad.

Art by James Jean