And We Shall Go A'Questing

by Mikal Trimm



This is what we seek,

and the King holds out his goblet,

that same vessel that we,

his servants, his equals, his betters

drank from, filled with

the Other element of The Circle,

the tainted grain -- bastard child of Free Thought

and Father of loose tongues; and we

shout our hurrahs.


This is what we seek,

and we stumble forth

encased in armor and prayer

to fight figments and myths

in order to lay claim to

a figment, a myth.


This is what we seek,

and we drown our doubts with

goblets full of God's forgetfulness,

our voices rising with our Spirits;

damn those who don't agree, and

twice-be-damned those who interfere!

The King is not here amongst us, but

we feel his presence, and we salute

his Majesty.


This is what we seek,

and our blood freezes into the snow, and

our limbs fall about us like gory petals.


This is what we seek,

and we stumble through the shattered corpses,

some friends, some strangers, looking for

signs of life, and we pray

for the dead, and we cry

for the living, and we wonder

if we have been blessed or cursed

to be survivors.


This is what we seek,

A goblet.

This is what we seek,

A figment.

This is what we seek,

A myth.


This is what we seek,

and the quest goes on forever, and

we drown questions with goblets

of forgetfulness, and we sing songs

in loud voices, and we learn to hate

men who sing other songs,

or drink from different cups,

or chase down the figments and myths

of different Kings.


This is what we seek:

warmth, and food, and

the blessings of our King --

who is far away,

and warm,

and well-fed,

and holding a goblet

that will forever overflow

with the blood of our sacrifices.


And we toast our King,

and again we go a'questing.


"And We Shall Go A'Questing" copyright Mikal Trimm 2005


About the Author:

Mikal Trimm writes speculative fiction and poetry, and he's still surprised whenever he sells something.  He has been surprised more than sixty times now in the last few years and hopes the look of shock stays on his face perpetually.


Lone Star Stories * Speculative Fiction and Poetry * Copyright 2003-2005


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