image borrowed from bing
“The story of Ulysses & Agamemnon & Menelaus, of Jesus,
of the Good Knight of Chaucer lives in every one of us.”
--James Lee Burke
The baronis barricaded bungalow
stood on it stilt-stanchions
near the cusp of the Tharakian Forest;
to the torrential Rains of Riprore
that came too often unannounced,
as the pernicious purple
tides would run four feet deep,
sweeping all the sweet ferrischrooms
& fairy muklarks away, carrying
them unceremoniously down to the muddy Dartoon Delta,
where the pink-winged garfs
& the shark-finned electric pinto seals
would gobble them as glorious delicacies.
Kronis arose with the second sun,
ate his pelicoon eggs cold,
dipping his toasted rye-fingers
into his golden mug of steaming green kafteen.
He strode proudly out onto his pecan porch,
stretching his powerfully muscled arms
over his head, rippling
& popping his abs, gluts. & calves
during his morning sun salute.
His silver-plated armor hung
on its willow pole horse, beckoning to him.
He pulled on the metal leggings first,
squatting several times as the iron knee joints brayed
& squawked--limbering up,
before pulling on Pyrothian
snakeskin boots, slapping at
the red & black scales embedded in the leather
for luck; strapping on
his chest plates with their bloodfire mercurian mango crests
emblazoned on them, tied on his golden wartdog eppiletts
& his forearm protectors, before picking up
his thick heavy broadsword--Drammelslayer,
sheathed in its white-fringed
Palimanus scabbard, & artfully slung
it across his broad naked back--a warrior
never wears armor behind him
because his foes
would always be in front of him.
His war helmet, Bertranius, shone brightly
of bronze, jade, & gold-plating. He carried it
under his left arm as his Stygian attendants
walked over from the stable
with his Mars Stallion--Ferocitus.
He mounted confidently, without assistance,
this morning, & galloped off toward
the Vermillion Mountains--for a yellow-backed
boar Drammel had been raiding a village
near Mt. Shaknoid, devouring cattle
& villagers alike, before burning huts.
Kronis would introduce himself
that day at the end of Ramgust,
& he rode without doubt
that the dastardly Drammel
would soon become
his hundredth kill.
Posted over on dVerse Poets MTB
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