A story

Knight rider in the jungle , unarmed
ridingm traveling with destination naught.
Wonder-er lost. Wonderlasted.
Atop her tower, princess laments
She spits the world, she mocks and hacks
and coughs a wind tha spits and douses disease.
Her forlorn and haggard sword
as her only mirror and prism, to gaze criticaly upon her self and others.
Blackened Knight hears her dirge in awe
Bewildered he beckons, bewitched, bearing in his biased brain "Beware!"
Boldly he enters her tower, invited
How can something so fair smell so acrid?
Her hair a loom of dreams.
Her gown made of brimstone, woven on silk and rosepetals.
She served him rot and bile, on porcelain and crystal,
That breathless succubuss unfurled her limbs to the starry-eyed dreamer with the gentle face.
Before the stab he said:
"I want to see you smile."
She kissed his eyelids:
"Best to keep things in a shallow end,
cause i never quite learned how to swim."
That was not true. He knew instantly.
She could swim. Her pain and suffering
emerging from memories of drowning assaulted him,
brought him to his knees.
He wanted to sit with her for days,
to listen to her whine and curses
to dance with her in trance
to sing and compose with her.
To lick her wounds and see her heal.
But he didn't realize he was not the hero.
She was the Arthur of her own England.
She was hard as stone, run-through by
a sword, a sword she could only pull free and allow the wound to heal.
All that was left for him was to move
to her shadow gallery. And become another suitor
waiting for that splendid sword to point him out of the crowd.