The Fisher King

Another poem, written around the same time as Prodigal. I had been tempted to work more on this one at the time, but reviewing it, I think it's the perfect length. If I ever do a long-form treatment of The Matter of Britain, it will probably be prose.

The Fisher King

The Wasteland outside reflects

my wounded soul awaiting healing after all this time.

An unasked for immortality;

life eternally marred by the gushing of pus.

My thigh pierced by the spear

(A pun for those who seek it);

Punishment for my wayward ways,

Prodigality lavishly bestowed with mortification.

As the blistered skin cannot drink enough,

So this Wasteland gluts water yet never supplies verdant field.

My hair, scant and patched,

Radiation sickness from a fallout fifteen hundred years in the future-

has ridden a pox upon this land

(upon my face, my back my legs).

Mutually assured destruction,

Betwixt myself and this place I call my home.

A ghoul sits upon the throne,

my face twisted in misery so that it knots.

It is not that this land hurts me so,

It is my hurt that has pierced and entangled the land.

My healing has been foretold

(And the cosmos gasps in antici-)

I must keep my humor in the face of pain,

And keep vigil in the hope of revel-({p}ation).

For healing will be found in the cup.

As the chosen one strides in upon a prophesied eighth day.

With fear and faith I am beckoned near.

And as healing knits into my bones,

A green hue reclothes the land in the fig leaf

I once stole to cover my nakedness.