The knight’s bones settle and shift
And fill the tomb with fine millennial dust,
As if the years of mute expectancy lift
The lid of the sarcophagus.
Eternal peace is an ironical reward
For those who lived intending to attack,
So poised for Armageddon that they crack
The gauntlet and the white eroded sword.
Intentions hold the living man entombed
While he still breathes, immobile in delay,
And in his hopes so utterly consumed,
He lies as if dead, awaiting Judgment Day.