THE MIRAGE OF ARTHUR

THE MIRAGE OF ARTHUR

I do not say legend as that is less
real
than a reflection of the real,
distorted or hazy as that may be
floating as it is in air
or consciousness
over the reflected

what, then, is the real
under the mirage of Arthur?

Take a king
of unique and mysterious birth
rising out of mean obscurity
to seize a sword of such unearthly power
— which none other can grasp and wield —
as by it uniting disparate and warring peoples
into a unified kingdom
and by his prowess,
majesty of personhood
and true love of them
win such love from his people
they would as soon die as live
for love of him

the sword given by a woman
in whom rested the living waters
from a High Throne off-world,
from whence also was forged the blade
which had no beginning
gleaming always with the brilliance
of the child’s father

A king who died a mysterious death
and word was
would return
and bring the kingdom again
in true and greater glory.

They live — even in this day —
who live by this
real-under-the-mirage joy,
Story-beneath-all-stories joy,
who dance and sing
in the king’s unending kingdom
while yet in Time,
for the glory of legends and such mirages
has overflowed into Time
and cannot any longer be contained
but must wash across the earth
till the whole is filled with it

even though the precious dispensing vessels
be first broken, blood like seed soaking the earth,
saints and martyrs all, for love,
for Arthur’s true image, and return.

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