Long past the labored salutes
of men like Perceval,
men who once were children,
novice to the ways of men
who's weathered souls encounter
each his own horizon,
where little things are large
and large things are small again
men who search the grail,
as if to find their way
amid the torrid ruin
but for a cup they lose their soul
and not for trying but instead
searching past the dying
of one man fair who
would make them whole
his is the beneficent strength,
the purveyor of hope,
and more than relic
or contemplative tale
It was his impart made in blood
that he could not refuse,
and his own stance by stripe,
assured he would prevail
John R Tarter
J