victory

The Unconquered Yield ​The dust of the arena, thick and red, Settles on the stone where hope was bled. The final stroke was given, clean and cruel, And I am lowered, the broken fool. The roar that greets the other’s rising name Is but the echo of a passing flame; The laurel crown is lifted, gold and bright, But not for one who failed to win the fight. The ledger reads: Defeat. The margin wide. The world, as ever, cheers the turning tide. ​Yet, as the breath comes back in ragged streams, A strange, stern fire ignites within the dreams. For victory is not the simple prize, A thing consumed before the watching eyes. It is the measure of the spirit’s cost, The tally of the self that wasn’t lost. I stand here, vanquished, bruised, and battle-scarred, My outer shell irrevocably marred, But in the soul, where silent banners wave, I am the victor of the things I gave. ​I did not shrink, nor bargain for the ease; I wrestled with the wind and roaring seas. I pushed the limit of my human might Until the very darkness yielded light. The sword may fail, the shield may splinter fine, But courage, tested fully, is divine. I met the challenge, naked, face-to-face, And left the whole of me within that space. The goal eludes me,