Hating Struggle. Now Hating victory.

She is the worst lair.

The ever faithful nurse to every little ear.

That the skies was made for every man.

And not just the ground.

She is a storyteller just like me.

There was nothing else I could do.

I tried and understood nothing and watched the gods. 

But I unlike her, was not born to serve and eat.

Or delight and dance and make children.

I was born for the quick hours.

For glory sharper than the blade and emblazons on skin and blazer.

A stage and an altar. Must this live in my dream ever.

I can barely stand by myself. My spirit sits out of me.

Waiting for what glory it could find.

The passion in living wanes watching the beauty of life pass by.

Like an elopement of my heart, I see the lavenders and smile.

The flowers are ever so pretty, needing no hand.

I like the domestic, those who don't become mad.

By living in the stories and wanting a sharp delight of glory. 

All I search for now is some warmth in my heart.

The bravery and the strength of my soul charging every hour.

The beauty of life is this. You can wake without a smile or you can die.

 

This one fight makes me weary for once I realise.

I have been fighting myself. My enemy is in my head.

Now seeing I must struggle.

Hating struggle, I see no delight and hating victory.

but the sweet jingle of the coins have never missed my ears.

Now I become like all. I am no longer a fighter for glory.

Like the ant, I go. Yes but I gather so much. 

Author's Note

The writer is disillusioned and unhappy due to failure, but later inspired for a better life.

Reviews

[Jibbs]

I LOVE THE LAST LINE!!!!!

[Amadi Judith]

Thanks, I am grateful for the review.