Illustrated Knight

You bore the mark of a crusade
upon your heart,
yet you never fought for me,
I don't see my name printed
on your flesh
or on the battered pages
of a book well-attributed.

Was it all in my mind,
that you could rescue
my dreams from art,
and fly them into motion?

For when I look at your
scathing portraits,
you remind me of
the hopelessness
that's drawn,
like elderly fingers
who taunt and tarry
the seasons of time.

I was never made to be
a damsel;
maybe I was made for
knighthood, or to be
a hero of my own kind.

Viewing your
watercolor memories,
you're nothing but
full
of your own self-love,
and I can't bear to be
remembered in fame-
for I don't want to
die and be

a piece of
illustrations
to be held up for,
all the kingdom to see.

I'd rather be forgotten, love,
or passed upon a lonely
avenue, without a particular
glance over the shoulder,
and knowing that I am

my own strength.

Written 6/24/12