To the Parish of Paladin Lexicon

To the Parish of Paladin Lexicon

We’re headed out to a front.
Headed to a waterfront.
As knights of lexicon
We will dutifully respond

To the university’s call.
Parchment face is shining.
Letters face ink well wall
Aesthetically defines main hall.

On our scroll steeds
Of awe-inspiring arcane age.
Gauging long expanse
Before turning the page.

We sojourn to the shore.
Sojourning to the shore for lore.
Relax, saddle seated.
Off, and by campfires heated.

Pitching patch tents on the bank,
After crossing the river we drank
From. Bridge made of old oak wood.
Taking road forks when we should.

Avoiding highwaymen
In our armor suits and tiffany ties.
Swords sheathed next to quill pens
Defying bandits and fake dyes.

Still we sojourn on.
We must make it to the gold coast.
Backpacks lit by mythic dawn
Goring a forest we march upon.

Looking at the woods.
Sunlight piercing the canopy.
Under water wicking lines
Wearing some rough-woven hoods.

Eating rations on horseback.
Potions drank with river water.
We have to keep on track.
Observing lexicon’s altar.

Gauntlets guarding arms
Might as well be magical.
We used to work word farms.
Wielding ploughshares seemed so natural.

We beat them into blades
Overlooking another cliff face.
Sun glistens over a glade.
Resting to tighten raiment lace.

Hills we cross and plains we peak
Traveling across woods of teak
Hoods patched with torn cuirass
Shielding us from branched derris

When the hall is at last seen
The script appears to gleam.
It’s spire is so tall.
Skyscraping clouds and shire.

It’s flanked by redwood trees
Gently blowing in the breeze.
Out the massive back door
A gold coast and powder shore.

Step in through the gate.
Cresting our breastplates:
Setting characters ornate;
Guild badges shining opaque.

Our sorcerer is here
Inscribing words for those near
Who read without fear
We know they are true seers.

They call him Paladin Lexicon.
He writes about our spawn.
Forces we all think
But don’t commit to ink.

His robes are gilded gold,
White beard long and bold.
In his parish of the truth
He crafts legendary sooths.

The foyer has big pillars
Like thinner tree trunk glimmers.
Crystal hints at big libraries
From where we got our spell pennies.

On the shelves above our heads,
Where our horses through are led,
Volumes watch us pass on by
Letting us defy these lies.

Off to our rooms we go and pray
To his gospel we are prey
Happily let to be conduits
Of words and letter monuments.

Published by Jake Thomas Shaw

Concerned with memory, currency, and destiny, I strive to capture each one as they happen. Join me and consume reality! Radio Reality. City!

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