Sir Justic the HeroA Poem by Sam LiebermanFlooded waters, sunken
holes, Fumes from mountains
burning coals; Houses, buildings: disarray, Crumbled idols made
from clay.
What tools could mend
this broken life? Born from anger, born
from strife; What legends could the
greats bards tell? Of brave Sir Justic Winterfell.
He had no one, not
friend nor foe, His city he left, amid
freezing snow, To meet his fate he crossed
the land, Because of the lines
on the palm of his hand.
To kill the false king,
that noble quest, But on such a path he
was put to the test; He killed women and
children, burned villages down, No fault was his,
there was no way around.
Nothing mattered to
him except for his mission, Driven by lies that
stroked his ambition, He cared for no thing,
he crushed his own sanity, He did what he must
and it took his humanity.
To the palace he came,
in a blaze of fire, His wings spread out,
flying higher; An arrow was nocked,
straight and true, And through the top
window it sang and it flew.
It drove through the
heart of the king's own son, The unbeatable power
was suddenly done; With a cry of pure
anguish he dropped his defenses, And a scream filled
the air that deafened the senses.
Then the driving flames burned out, As his body fell, his
mind filled with doubt, What to do, where to
go, what purpose had he left? Why did it all seem so
insignificant, bereft- Of pain, of emotion,
of urgency was he, So he lay there, in
the shade beneath an oak tree; To this day he
remains, for every bone was broken, And on his grave peasants
spit in spiteful token.
Sir Justic, the hero,
the killer of kings, Of women, of children,
and all living things; Sir Justic, the monster,
the most hated man, Because of the lines
on the palm of his hand.
© 2013 Sam Lieberman
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