"It is not the critic who counts: not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly, who errs and comes up short again and again, because there is no effort without error or shortcoming, but who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, who spends himself for a worthy cause; who, at the best, knows, in the end, the triumph of high achievement, and who, at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who knew neither victory nor defeat." Theodore Roosevelt

Monday, October 17, 2011

The appeal of decay

Assignment: write a poem about sin.

Following her or her kin is death,
A promise of satisfaction and power,
Allure in her scent which no man knows not.

A winding trail downwards,
to summit back is a task olympic.
Lies and power she feeds to all men,
Until the breaking point, reached, lies his decision.

A continuance of relations would strip him of his name,
but re-emboss “hers” on top.
With “hers” comes pleasure and failure,
intricately interwoven so failure lies beneath the shine of her promises.

Her trap’s success now laid,
the old magic forces her to reveal the third option:
To chose not hers or his own but the name of creator.
With it comes grace, with it reprimanding, with it fullness.

When choosing this name he sees her facade falter,
Her caresses and lips, retrospectfully viewed reveal carcasses and absinthe.
Turning from the fruit and choosing the blood.
Covered in it, he is king.

He has power,
he has a name,
he has a future,
he is conqueror because of Him.
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