Reality is rested and rare

Reality is rested and rare,,

Dreams and hopes wrapped up in paper towel,
what next for the labouring knight
Hands all crusted calloused hard, and tired,
has he always been keen for this fight

Started with hopes higher than scrapers,
left home their failures, weighed heavy in tact
Journeying further claiming each triumph quietly,
friends loud not constrained with fact

Shall each small honour be shirked left aside,
with the march stalling failing at best
Not one man could say turn about soon,
each to much sunk in this tiresome quest

The end could be left on a door step,
principals could all just spin, cut and run
Not known for their gallant appraisals,
not many dream deeply not one

What is given for bravery is not sacred,
metal bashed beaten, awkwardly hanging
Paraded in courtyards in cluttered towns
mayoral music and big drums all banging