Arthur

I stand in a large vine-covered graveyard
Encircled in numerous faces with numerous expressions, like
dozens of masks with eyes fixed on me
Voices run around past me like speeding chariots
With my small shivering arm I reach out toward
a sword, stuck in an anvil
like a shining metal cross
I clench my teeth; I pull on the sword with
all my might
A chink of metal and gasps from the crowd
The sword scratches as it emerges from its stony sheath
The last of the blade leaves the stone
An echoing silence rings in my ears
The noontime sun reflects upon the blade
The sword weighs a burden in my heart as well as
my hands
What could be so important about this weapon?
Why is everyone cheering my name?
I’m no king as they say
I’m only Arthur