The Grand Master

Inspiration this week has come from another subject that piqued my interest as a child and indeed as an adult, The Knights Templar. For centuries the Knights Templar have captured the interest and imagination of many writers and scholars alike, and I am no different in that respect. Whilst I don’t ascribe to any of the mysteries and legends that surrounds the Knights Templar, I do believe that they were worth the inclusion within this poem simply because of the rich tapestry that they wield and the mystique they create around the Templars.

I’ve kept it all quite ambiguous by mainly focusing on the last stand of an unnamed Grand Master, though the inspiration for the character was a mix of Dumbledore from the Harry Potter series and Jacques de Molay, the final Templar Grand Master. The ending was chosen specifically to conjoin with the legends of the grail and how it is all a mystery. Whilst again I don’t ascribe to any of the theories surrounded the Templars or the grail, I thought it stay true to the mystique and legend of the Templars. I hope you’ll all enjoy it. Until next time,

The Raven

The Grand Master

An elderly man, sits upon a chair, quill in his hand,
Trembling slightly as he awaits his final stand,
The table in front of him full of scrolls and communiqué,
A face, full of wrinkles and scars,
His grey eyes glancing up towards the hidden stars,
Trembling lips mumble a solemn prayer,
As beads of sweat drizzle down his matted hair…

His ancient robes, once resplendent and new,
Were now tattered and stained with the remains of sinew,
White robes with a crimson cross did so elegantly drape,
As did one the equally crimson cape,
Now bedraggled and torn, suffering the effects of age and war,
The Grand Master and his apparel were in sync like never before,
He had once walked and guarded The Faithful City’s most Holy Site,
That same place in which he had become a Templar Knight,
Now alone in this empty, cavernous hall, he glanced towards his sword and shield,
Starring solemnly upon that red cross, reminiscing of the relics he once did wield,
Of tales of crosses, spears, of a grail and hope,
Which are now hidden from a deceitful and vengeful pope…

The Grand Master shakes his head, and scribbles quickly with his quill,
Blood pours down from his forehead as the fear begins to make him ill,
He rises, slowly and gingerly walking towards an open window,
And glances down to the glistening river below,
The moonlight and darkness, giving the river and eerie feel,
He grasps the stone ledge and for one last time, he does kneel,
A silent prayer is uttered and then he beckons The Raven to land,
Sighing deeply, he gives The Raven the scrolls that he had in his hand,
The Raven nods once, and carries them in his claws and beak,
And as The Raven flies off, the Grand Master’s fear does peak…

Slowly, and nervously, he stumbles towards the chair he sat on before,
Sitting down he tries to assume the air of The Grand Master once more,
The Pope’s guards break through and now surround the hall within,
And begin to accuse The Grand Master of all heresies and unforgivable sin,
Silently the Grand Master looks at each of the soldiers once more,
Before accusing them of betraying his holy and just war,
Angered, they charge at him, and drag him out from that spire
And hurriedly placed him upon an unlit funeral pyre…
Tying him onto the wooden cross in the middle,
Demanding that he denounce his heretical riddle,
Angered at his refusal and denial of heresy,
The guards decided to be as cruel as can be,
A lit torch was thrown into the pyre,
And from it emerged a smouldering and viscous fire,
A piercing and pained yell pierced the night sky,
Reaching the place wherein The Raven did fly,
The Raven smirked and opened the sealed scroll,
And at that moment he knew the mystery remained whole,
Revealed were the words that The Grand Master had written moments before,
Quoth The Raven, Nevermore…

Written by The Raven –  14/01/2017 ©

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