The Fall of Camelot (working title)
It's been over a year or more since I attempted my last poem. I'm afraid I am terribly rusty, so feel free to bash this poem into pieces. I've worked on it long enough, so I just need to throw it out here, into the fire, and see what part of it (if any) survives. Also, I'm not at all happy with the title, so any suggestions would be greatly appreciated.
The Fall of Camelot
The solemn white knight
with the smoke-smudged face
cradles the little limp princess.
Above them the battle continues;
Kevlar-clad warriors storm the castle
ablaze on the corner of 3rd Street and Elm.
Compatriots gather behind barricadees,
silently gawk along the grungy sidewalks;
fearful faces flickering in the firelight
as Parkside Palace,
their bastion of brick and stucco, burns
fiercely just before sunrise,
the fifth and most of the sixth floors aflame,
stemming from candles left burning on magazines
by the juvenile jester in Apartment 119.
The grizzled knight,
kneeling, gallantly strives to revive
the golden-haired damsel,
wiping black filth from her face,
then, pressing his lips to hers,
breathes life with a hero's kiss.
Her father the King, dishelveled, powerless,
and her mother, fragile in flannel pajamas,
prays for a fairy tail ending.