None other than Lancelot, who was glory in the flesh,
was mired in a valley, unable to climb the slopes.
He’d fought in a tournament, besting many but not all,
and was taken to the forest by the losing team to rest.
It was a first. Riding deeper in the shadows,
he passed a chapel, where a recluse called
and asked what it was he wanted to see.
He told her about his defeat. The woman knew
of all the worship around him, including the Queen’s.
You hoard love, she said, which sickens the soul.
He saw shame. She told him, That’s why you’re weak,
and bidding farewell, she pressed him to remember. Soon,
at a river, he met a warrior, black as a bear,
who cut down his horse. Lancelot picked up his helmet,
chose a way, and walked.
Copyright © 2026 by Sam S. Dodd