The Quest

Searching for the chalice, malice to the bone;

longing for a treasure that the man could call his own.

He's weeping through the willows, wading through the seas;

thinking that he'd never find himself upon his knee.

He's hacking through the jungles, fighting through the trees;

hoping that the prize ahead will give in to his pleas.

He opens up the final door, bolting for his prize;

the golden cup shining right before his very eyes.

He reaches for his life-long goal, his prize upon the alter.

His fingers slip, he loses grip, he curses at his falter.

Filled with only sadness, madness to the bone;

longing for a treasure that the man could call his own.