Morning Star

O’, he had fought in countless spars,

this valiant and virtuous knight,

and left upon his face were many hideous scars,

as he could never turn his head to flight.

Yet he thought his soul was marred,

naught but a pestilential blight;

he wished his own reputation tarred,

gazing at his reflection with terrible spite.

Even at rest, his spirit was in shards,

until one cold and mysterious night,

passing grizzled and mindful guards,

came a fast and devious sprite.

He felt her pulling at his hair,

came his murmur, “Let me be, disturb me not,”

then he turned with an angry glare,

and found his hands were snared and caught.

“I can feel your sadness upon this nightly air,”

her green eyes flashed, full of curious thought.

“It is more than my lovely trees can bear,

and I thought to cure you with my draught.”

He braced himself for the witch’s blare,

but found the threat to be naught;

against her bosom, she held him there,

until his chest was empty of its fraught.

It was then he felt the hopeful warmth of dawn,

and although she had wandered away and far,

it was to her mysterious wood he was drawn,

to find his morning star.