THE QUEST

A vision slowly rises
On a foggy, blue horizon;
Comes a man with eyes of fire,
Secret whisper, one desire;

Captivating all with stories,
Buried treasure, conquests, glories,
Far countries, bloody battles,
Royal brains he has rattled.

Nearly slain, but by a breath
Eluded twice the jaws of death;
Spears the night in youthful ardor,
Careful not to play the martyr;

Slaying vice with saving grace,
Years of torment line his face.
He breathes his last, his soul at rest
Finds the object of his quest.

Copyright © 1990 Rachael Pringle