Death Be Not Maidenly Fair This Knight. Poem by Michael Gale

Those hands-Those ways of adverse advance...
Of that knight that rescued the fair maiden which in turn moved the heart-strings turn by chance.

A much royalt'eed prance by a horse's hoove's gaitley march...
Stiffened as winds displayed cleaned uniforms of many a soldier's finely pressed with a sharp edge and a hintful taughtly starch.

War ravaged lands of past...
Blood spilled spillage in 'Rivers Passed'.

Blood tides line up along streets of war torn towns...
Adhering to the sides of building's walls.

Horses have now slept in many partitioned stalls...
A required transportation into silenced dead battle.

Aft' the smoke and flames have cleared...
No longer heard were sounds of war chants of all the misdirected cattle.

Hell hath sent to man it's lonely cold half deafened deathly prattle...
At last-left alone standing are but todays red stained walls of bespeckled spattle.

These hands of war's past...
Can only leave behind dark memories in between the pages of
history book's-passed.