The Knave

A poem that I wrote a while ago, one that I am quite happy with. Enjoy.

The Knave

The knave, who finds himself at the edge of a sword,
Finds relief in profusely pleading for his life.
His desperate lies, his empty promises,
Each word of weakness measures the sweat on his brow.
His face, a glowing shade of yellow,
The man's next of kin, irrelevant in his mind
Those cowardly eyes speak of incompetance
Foolish ways, a stolen valour of man once slain.
This pauper was in haste to murder another,
Now he lies in wait at the iron grip of justice.
In this man's world, everything has a price
Pride is a mere shilling or too, power proves costly
But honour is to be taken from a broken man.
A naked throat exposed to a cold, metallic consequence
With the a sheath of dirty honour to save his life.
No matter how many men slain, the caged bird always sings
Mercy is the only avenue for those of inferior cloth.
A rogue proclaims his freedom from the knife
A life on rent from the righteous,
But borrowed honour will enslave this man forever.
If only he could accept death like he could accept life,
He could be free and have honour for himself.