It’s funny, what one is worth, isn’t it?
You know the phrase “Out of sight, out of mind”
but you never know how painful it can be.
A masterless samurai is a ronin.
What is a knight errant with no scarf?
Does errant cover that?
What is he worth?
Where is the light?
No sun, no stars, milady Moon a sliver caught in scud.
I know why knights went on impossible, suicidal quests.
Slaying dragons keeps you busy.
Fat is my dragon.
More widely, health.
This alcove is snug though.
Could easily be a grave.
I hear Procol Harum’s “Conquistador”,
“Under Cover of the Night” by the Stones,
So many more cries of anguish, despair, and defiance.
Some muses wander.
“Are you leaving me?”
“Don’t you trust me?”
Yes. Oh yes, milady, yes.
And then nothing.
No words.
Not a touch in passing.
Not a smile across a crowded room.
Not an instant spared to say ‘I’m here, all is well.’
One is left to kindle faith from damp twigs in a blizzard.
All one wants is the sun’s return.
Light and warmth, that bright regard.
Yet echoes in the wilderness ask questions.
Echoes of those echoes kindle the smoke of doubt.
It is worth it, after all?
Is it foolish tilting at a windmill giant only you can see?
Is it you doing all the work to build a castle of clouds?
Is it you alone holding one end of a rope tied to air?
Dignity in the fall remains a choice.
Become stone stood in barren land.
Stone can roll downhill only to the flats.
Stand up to catch what light may fall to you.
Gather shadows as your due.
Iron filings fly without will.
Draw; do not be drawn.
A lodestone’s boulder be.
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