24 Jul Blackknight-Fealty

A poet of old compared the warrior best to butchers:
He chose not the coroner, dressing men for death with wax,
He chose not the hangman, bracing justice in his axe,
Seldom athletes, but the game of war is drill-divested,
Seldom hunters, but the primal instinct is not attested;

The fane profession is not to merely slay his foes:
Before all else, he prepares a momentous feast,
Sacrifice made on altars of plains to various beast —
Bird and fowl and fieldly creature gather to the table,
They attend the great supper of God in the bloody gable
To dine on flesh from horses and kings and men of bonds
And drink of blood pooled from mountains into steaming ponds.

At the cry of an angel and a son of man on the sun frozen,
We empty every throne in conquest toward dire supplication
As heaven’s temple crashes down as the blood flows in,
Flooding the earth as laver to sublimate the consecration
Until we plunge the nails to our galactic, crosswise board,
Until the doors of the hidden house open a final invitation,
Until Holy Ghost etches His face in crisp constellation — as a sword.