Chronicles: The Cavalier

1) The Cavalier is en route to Cavalaire on cavalry
What we have here is a brute who’d stabbed with spears and witnessed insanity
He’d killed for his crown and country, town and mother he loved but he
Was still ugly and scarred, with cuts through his face and heart
Carried with him memories, his mind clanks with gears of wars
It was not just his body that was pierced with swords
His soul was torn and had ended many by who their mothers were born
And extinguished any hope even that which was forlorn
But he rides through golden fields and over rolling hills
Reminiscing over opponents which had yielded but still had killed
He regrets, but never forgets the number of heads
He’d helped pass from this life to the next
It is his duty, but still shows respect
As he lullabies on his way, he sees a butterfly in his array
No distinct path is he following, entranced by its flutter he decides to follow it
Through bracken and woods, and becomes deeper so he tracks it on foot
His pauldrons clunk as the intrigue of the plot thickens
Like a cauldron filled with chunks of hot chicken
Tenderly, the butterfly comes to a halt, so too, he stops
To see his location, unto his fascination
He’d found a cabin in the middle of the forest
But no hounds, rabbits or squirrels, this area was darkest
The graceful creature flew ever closer, but ever nearer something hung over his shoulder…

2) The Cavalier is en route to Cavalaire on cavalry
He battled in Krak des Chevaliers for his majesty, his family
But now returns home after such travesty
From war galore, death, broken bones: a tragedy
But he enters the cabin, shield at the ready incase
Something tries stabbing him, unconcealed sword from the waist
But upon visual assessment, all is dormant and resting
Just the aura though has some ungodly blessing
He delves deeper into the depths of the darkness
But he can feel his energy and essence being harnessed
A scythe to the golden harvest, but this is contrasting
As in the corner by an open canopy of the cabin
Is some form of knight, figurement of non-sanity grabbing a reflection of his life
Because when the Cavalier approached the knight
He found he had died in agony
In vanity, insanity; snippets of sunlight presents clarity
But past will be the time where all is smooth and velvet
As the Cavalier, tensely, removed the helmet
But shock clutches as if in the presence of a killer
Because he sees the knight’s eyes and he’s looking in a mirror
He sees the scars and the ugliness inside
And all the men he killed, at their gravestone, mothers cry
And their hands shiver, and their knees trembling, weak
And the swords that slice the scars that live upon his cheek
He runs out, falls to his knees and is plagued by misery
Looks over himself, a startling epiphany
Will this be how he’s seen in history?
Not a man of chivalry, but a dread cruel mystery
“I want not this, I fought for my love
My Father, my God, and for Heaven above
Not one single soul can take that from me...”
But it’s not what was taken, it’s what he gave they do not see
“I cannot stay, I must return to my horse, back to me!”
And he ran to reach the authenticity of reality
He is not a brute with a story of battle he’s
The Cavalier, en route to Purgatory; from Calvary…