The Beat of the Chivalry | Literature

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It was kind and warm. A sort of put off blaze, a warmth akin to that which radiated through the screens of chimneys, no longer burning but emitting a kinder, sultry temperature. It was welcoming, nice and toasty, ready for a snuggle under much cold weather.

Was that the song of chivalry?

But the chivalry was not always present when it crashed down, as the coldness was at the realm, roaming at large without anyone with holding any control over it. The warriors were never ready, they hid it and fought it without knowing the real reason for its attack, without touching it’s weak spot.

It cried and cried rivers, broadening the distance of a point in space from the warmth that could close the gap. They all drowned in its sorrow.

For the one afloat, in the island of nowhere with no holding point, it as a nightmare in a sea of tears. It was like diving into its deep waters, trying to fully comprehend the vast lunge of coldness that emanated from emotions buried down bellow. Instants that will forever be replayed, never to be replaced by opinions on monsters and strange men.

It was a hollow place to be, wanting to float over to the surface, finding itself lacking the oxygen to heat up the fire that could save it.

Large, sad and angry, a pain that expressed in notes of subterfuge that never came to life. It played notes, hidden, unbidden by words never spoken and songs never sung. By eyes averted, by words that would never meet the air outside its lungs. By physical contacts that it will not get, by a lack of emotional drawn that could sit it down with a lunge forwards.

So it dives down. And it mutes itself. And it’s surrounded by chivalry that wants to reach out to protect, but the shell is too powerful. It just wants to bloom inwardly, keep on living under the safety of its carapace.

A place untouched, where the sting of words hurts and where a wound made at moons past still glows, pulsing with the life of a sickness eating it away. Steady, unrelenting, murderous in its intent.

The chivalry never came to its rescue.

It never would. It was always subterfuge, always a secondary reason for breaking into little shards of nothingness. Knowing it wasn’t as appealing, it wasn’t worthy of dark eyes rimmed by crinkled smiles. It wasn’t even close to being the tiny and precious speck of a person that it slipped it’s hands around on a daily basis.

The waists that fit inside it’s daft fingers, the blackness emblazoned in its person and the armor of this knight. It burned down the hope, it cut down the ropes of a free falling victim of warm fire.

Always more, always less, always imperfect and broken. Bits that were sharper than intended, softer spots protected by snark. And as always, looking to be its own chivalry as the rest weren't there to be it. Because it’s easier to give in to the guns and the swords and the pain, than to recognize another ‘almost’.

Another lost chance of experimenting, at looking at a reflection in kindness and joyous rapport.

Broken at last. As ever, as it would. It was it’s own subway chivalry, running havoc inside the belly of a city, traveling under and joining and breaking, but living its sword on a station, moving along with the flow. Leaving trails of blood and gore, destruction and empty samples of nothing and what ifs. At last, a breeze. The airflow, the support for a life never lived.

A chivalry of one, traveling alone through the subway of a city never safe.

A perk of wonderful smiles, and a speck of life where the charred remains of a burnt down hope are buried as the knight. As an afterthought, the valley where the body of the chivalry rests, blossoms with a flower in amber and black, with a deep sound that pulses back in it chest.

The chivalry came and went.

But the lesson remains, among the ashes of those behind. It hurts and breaks and burn, and it gives life to a definitive sensation. Long lost are the hidden chances, and here are the choices.

The chivalry needs to know where to proceed now. The greener pastures of chances not yet lost, of pain not yet lived. Of hope, of slivers of warms of toasty rooms and empty weathers of nothingness.

May it’s quests it’s more open, a soul broader and less constricted. May it find its beat, and it’s low pitched music plays on.

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-A.